Lamentable Tidings
by Rhyselle
Summary: Gen. AU. Dark. Grievous news comes to the Steward. Faramir has been taken by the Nazgul in Ithilien and his fate is dark indeed. THIS STORY IS BEING REWORKED TO FIX A PLOT FLAW. Corrected chapters will be reposted as I get them done. No ETA yet.
1. The Messenger

_**A/N:** This piece attacked me during my lunch hour and poured into my notebook while I was eating salad and old fashioned chicken and noodles. It was triggered by the horde of questions that popped into my head after reading the final line of the Epilogue of Evendim's "Sharpe's Trophy" crossover, although it actually does not take place in that AU, but in one of my own making._

_**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fanfiction, created solely for the enjoyment of the author and the readers at Fanfiction dot net. I am getting no monetary restitution for this work, and it is in no way intended to infringe on any copyrights or other intellectual property rights held by the Tolkien Estate, New Line Cinema, nor any other Lord of the Rings licensee._

**Lamentable Tidings - Chapter One - The Messenger  
**

by Rhyselle

_9 March 3019, Shortly after dawn_

The tall man in the browns and greens of the Ithilien Rangers knelt before the Steward, his skin waxen, and his eyes despairing hollows in the pain-ravaged face. The bowman's hands were clenched around a cloth-wrapped object, and he was surrounded by the miasma of terror and death, and his clothing stained with blood and other foulness.

"Captain Anborn, report!" ordered the senior officer who stood to the left of the Steward's chair.

"Henneth Annun is fallen, my lord," Anborn reported, his voice hoarse and wavering. It was obviously taking all of his strength to stay upright on his knees. "The Southrons, Haradrim for the most part, and orcs overwhelmed us by sheer numbers, forcing us from the refuge. Captain Faramir ordered a withdrawal, intending we should augment the garrison at Osgiliath. He kept to the rear guard, determined that as many men as possible should make it through. I fought at his side." He dragged in a deep pain-filled breath and continued. "We'd nearly made it to the river--and then we were trapped."

Denethor II's eyes were steely grey as they bored into the Ranger's face, almost as if the Steward was going to lift the horrific memories right from Anborn's mind instead of listening to the distraught man's words.

"The Haradrim drove us into a large force of Orcs on the east bank. We fought through, my lord, and most of the men managed to get into the river, intending to swim across to the west bank, but the rear guard--we were about to follow, those of us who were left--when the Nazgul came." Anborn shivered violently but couldn't seem to look away from Denethor's frozen face. "Captain Faramir confronted it, my lord. He ordered me to get the last of the men to the river and then he turned to the wraith and challenged it."

The man's fingers tightened on the burden he held. "Most of the rear guard made it into the river, fewer made it out on the other side--and some of us never made it to the water. I fought until my sword shattered, and then until my dagger was lost. The orcs took me, my lord. I prayed to the Valar that I would die with dignity, and Gondor's name on my lips--but they didn't kill me. They took me back to where Captain Faramir was." Anborn choked and bowed his head.

"What happened to my son?" It was the first time that the Steward had spoken since the Ranger was escorted into the Hall of Kings.

"He lay on the ground in the midst of a circle of orcs. His sword was broken--and the Nazgul was laughing at him--it was hideous to hear--their screams are horrible but this was worse. I thought I heard him say something but I couldn't make it out, and the Wraith kicked Captain Faramir so that he rolled face down, and it ripped the longbow from his back."

Denethor's breath caught, and then he clamped his lips together, as if to stifle a moan of grief.

"The orcs dragged me forward and it looked at me--I couldn't look away--I wanted to die and cover myself with dust and ashes to get away from it--" Anborn focused on the hands that clenched the White Rod and forced himself to continue. "It broke the bow. It took it in its mailed hands and broke it in pieces and then threw Captain Faramir up across the neck of the Fell Beast. He--he didn't move, my lord. Th-then the Orcs dragged me up to it and it gave me the bow. It took my hands and wrapped them around it and hissed at me that I was to bring it to you--and to give you--a--message. And then it mounted and flew east, towards the Morgul Vale."

The Ranger's eyes began to haze over, as if a grey mist of despair had taken physical form within them, and he awkwardly held up the bundle he carried. "It said," he paused a moment and then quoted, his voice changing weirdly as he repeated the ringwraith's words, "Tell the Steward to seek his son in the houses of lamentation, and to cease his useless defense of the land, for all will fall and break before the might of Sauron."

As Anborn said the last word, Denethor came down from his seat and took the wrapped object into his own hands. His mission complete, Anborn collapsed, his body wracked with shudders before going suddenly still.

The wrappings fell away, revealing four pieces of inlaid polished wood wrapped about with a tangled, twisted linen bowstring, the silvery mithril tracery of a white tree still gleaming near the shattered handgrip.

Denethor managed to resume his seat and bowed over the fragments of his son's weapon, clutching them tightly as he fought the despair that threatened to paralyze him with grief.

"Leave me," he ordered, not looking up, and the hall was emptied, the guards carrying the Ranger's limp form from the chamber, leaving him alone with the silent statues of the ancient kings.

_Seek your son in the houses of lamentation._

_"Faramir!" _And Denethor wept.

TBC


	2. The Wakening

**_A/N: _**_This is AU, splitting off from canon a few hours after Faramir sends Frodo and Samwise on their way with Gollum on 8 March. The hobbits and Gollum departed in the early morning, the overwhelming attack on the Refuge came from the north at mid-day, and Faramir ordered the retreat to Osgiliath before mid-afternoon. The running battle brought them to the east banks in the evening, and the Nazgúl_ _carried Faramir away just as twilight went into full dark. Anborn made it across Anduin, got hold of a horse and rode overnight to present the Lamentable Tidings to the Steward early on March 9th._

_I had not intended to make this more than a one-shot but then the muse got her teeth into the idea of Faramir being lost and, well… what's a author to do but submit to her creative guide's orders?_

**_Warnings: _**_Emotionally intense, semi-graphic description and implication of personal violence. No slash._

**_Disclaimer:_**_ This is a work of fanfiction, created solely for the enjoyment of the author and the readers at Fanfiction dot net. I am getting no monetary restitution for this work, and it is in no way intended to infringe on any copyrights or other intellectual property rights held by the Tolkien Estate, New Line Cinema, nor any other Lord of the Rings licensee._

**Lamentable Tidings - Chapter Two - The Wakening**

by Rhyselle

_9 March 3019, Midday_

The Nazgúl looked into the cell through the grill in the heavily locked door at the man who lay sprawled, unconscious, on the bare stone floor, heavy iron chains binding him hand and foot. This was a valuable prisoner, for the moment, and it had no intention of letting him have any chance of escape, nor of allowing him to die until the Lord of the Nazgúl , the Witch-king of Angmar, had questioned him. The younger son of the Steward in Minas Tirith was a prize to be coveted, dead or alive, as a tool to be used against the stubborn ruler of Gondor. Alive was better, as there was information to be gleaned from his mind of the defenses that would be faced by the Dark Lord's army when the order came to march and secure the last bastions of strength of the so-called free peoples. Rohan was finished; even if their pitiful remaining cavalry did come to the aid of Denethor, they would be easily overrun by the largest army ever conceived of on Arda. The Steward's mind was crumbling beneath the onslaught of Lord Sauron's, via the Palantir that had once rested in this place, and the White City would become a charnel house; any survivors of the battle destined to become fodder for the orcs, or slaves to the Red Eye and his servants.

It waited patiently for the return of the Lord of the Morgul Vale from the Master's Tower, and smiled coldly as the prisoner began to show signs of awakening. Let the Ranger sit and listen to the final preparations of war and let him despair. Let pain loosen the sinews of his will. Let him weaken so that when Angmar reached into his mind, he would easily give up the knowledge sought for. He was a Man, and all men break.

- - - - - - - - - -

The first thing Faramir became aware of was cold. Not just the surface upon which he lay, which seemed to suck the warmth from his pain-wracked body and left him shivering despite the layers of clothing and armor he still wore, but the cold that had surrounded him as he'd fallen before the Ring Wraith, as if the creature had leached the warmth out of the early spring forestlands, forcing all nature back into desolate, sunless winter. Each breath seemed to stab his lungs with needles of chill, and it felt as if an icy band was squeezing in across his forehead and around his temples as his head throbbed.

Then he became aware of the not so distant sound of cruel laughter and coarse voices arguing in the harsh tones of the Black Speech and the clatter of iron weapons clashing against one another in counterpoint to the noise of many iron-shod feet.

The Ranger gradually remembered more of what had happened before his fall into darkness on the east bank of the River Anduin, a stone's throw from safety and freedom.

Tremors took him, fear and cold and despair all contriving to suck him down, to debilitate him as he remembered laying at the feet of the Nazgúl , wounded and unable to rise, but still able speak defiant words to the wielder of the Black Breath. It had laughed at him, and he had fully expected to die, to pass through the veil at that moment when he'd felt himself seized in cruel freezing wraith's hands and pulled up and away from the blood-soaked ground where too many of his Rangers had perished in the attempt to reach and cross the river.

He could hear the voices louder now—argumentative and insistent—moving closer, and he slitted his eyes open, not yet attempting to move otherwise.

There was light, of a sort; an eerie phosphorescent, sickly glow that emanated from the ceiling, walls and floor of the narrow room in which he lay, barely illuminating it. His vision seemed fogged around the edges and he had to squint to make out the scabrous layers of fungi on the stones that were apparently the source of the light.

The scent of corruption filled his nose and another shudder took him. The evil miasma that had gradually filled Ithilien as the forces of the Dark Lord had encroached upon the wooded land was especially thick in this place. Its oppressiveness seemed to stifle the air in his throat and lungs, and he gasped for breath, fighting panic.

He pushed himself over onto his stomach and found himself entangled in the chains that were bound to his wrists and ankles. He got up onto hands and knees, biting back a moan as he felt battle injuries make themselves known. He fought back the blackness that threatened his diminished vision and the nausea that suddenly roiled in his stomach, and found he was facing a door in which there was a small grill set a bit above what would be his eye level had he been standing.

Faramir could see nothing through the dark aperture, but it drew his attention. He could feel the familiar malevolent presence beyond the door, and fought down the rising fear inside of him. He'd expected to be dead, not captive. "I will tell you nothing," he said out loud. "You will get nothing useful from my mind or my mouth."

"Still defiant… we shall see how long that lasts, Captain Faramir of Gondor, when my Captain arrives and carries you to our Master. Under HIS gaze, you will be stripped of every drop of knowledge and left as carrion when we no longer have use for you." The Nazgúl 's voice made the Westron in which he spoke sound as evil as the Black Speech. "In the meantime, I have promised my men some amusement."

The door opened and a huge orc moved into the cell, bearing a length of heavy chain, and a predatory gleam in his remaining eye. The other was a glistening ruin of half-dried gel and blood.

The Nazgúl laughed, "Your arrow did not take his life, Ranger, but I have promised him restitution for the loss of his eye in my service."

The door slammed closed as Faramir tried unsuccessfully to scramble away from the Uruk-hai.

"He has orders to keep you alive and able to respond to interrogation--beyond that, I think you will find him--most inventive." The Nazgúl 's laughter echoed in Faramir's ears as the length of chain whistled through the air to crack down on his leather-clad back, and then was subsumed by the Man's unwitting scream of pain.

TBC


	3. The Guests

_**A/N:** This is AU, splitting off from canon a few hours after Faramir sends Frodo and Samwise on their way with Gollum on 8 March. The hobbits and Gollum departed in the early morning, the overwhelming attack on the Refuge came from the north at mid-day, and Faramir ordered the retreat to Osgiliath before mid-afternoon. The running battle brought them to the east banks in the evening, and the Nazgúl carried Faramir away just as twilight went into full dark. Anborn made it across Anduin, got hold of a horse and rode overnight to present the Lamentable Tidings to the Steward early on March 9th._

_**Warnings:** Emotionally intense, semi-graphic description and implication of personal violence. No slash._

_**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction, created solely for the enjoyment of the author and the readers at Fanfiction dot net. I am getting no monetary restitution for this work, and it is in no way intended to infringe on any copyrights or other intellectual property rights held by the Tolkien Estate, New Line Cinema, nor any other Lord of the Rings licensee._

**Lamentable Tidings - Chapter 3 - The Guests  
**

By Rhyselle

_9 March 3019, Mid-afternoon_

"Hail, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor!"

Denethor raised his head and stared at Mithrandir, his brows lowered and irritation swiftly replacing the grief in his face.

"What is your purpose here, wizard? To be a herald of doom?" He tightened his fingers around the pieces of wood in his lap until he could feel the outline of the layers of inlay pressing into the skin of his still sword-calloused hands.

Gandalf planted his staff and eyed the black-garbed Steward from under white, bristling brows. "I bring you news of battle in Rohan, and to charge you to make every needful defense of this city, for this is where the Fate of Middle-earth may well be decided. Why have not the women and children been evacuated to the places of refuge? Has not the Red Arrow been sent to Theoden King?"

"Theoden King is worse than useless, having fallen into decrepit dependence on clever counselors who seek their own gain. Gondor has spent it bravest and best to fight back the enemy while other lands stay safe within their borders, relying on us to keep the might of Mordor at bay. However, the Red Arrow went forth five days ago." Denethor looked down at the bow, and then back at Gandalf. "Gondor has no future, wizard, even if the one who rides in your wake lays claim to the kingdom. Gondor has had no king for nigh onto a thousand years. Gondor needs no king! And shortly," he added, despair strong in his voice, "for my son, Faramir, is lost to me, and I have had no word of my elder son, Boromir, since he went north to counsel with Elrond Half-elven--the House of Hurin, Ruling Stewards of Gondor, will come to an end in this darkest of times."

"Boromir!" Before Gandalf could reply, an oddly accented, tenor voice piped up from behind the folds of Gandalf's cloak, and Denethor stared as what he first thought was a child stepped out of concealment and forward to stand in plain sight at Gandalf's side. "Boromir is just fine! He saved the lives of my kinsman and me at Amon Hen and then found us at Isengard, and is in Rohan now."

The Steward took in the bright green eyes under the tousled curly hair, the odd clothing, and the broad, bare, fur-topped feet and realization hit him. "And the Halfling forth will stand", he quoted softly.

Pippin looked up at the Steward inquiringly and asked plaintively, "Why is it people keep calling us Halflings? Boromir did too. We're Hobbits!"

Denethor quickly masked how taken aback he was by the Halfling's--Hobbit's--question. "The Men of Númenor who founded Gondor and Arnor found that your people were half of their average height--thus Halflings--or _Perian_ in Sindarin. Although, until recently it was thought that your people were merely pieces of legends, made up for tale telling around a winter's fire."

Pippin nodded, "Well, I suppose that's to be expected. Since leaving home I've seen things that I'd have sworn were naught but drunkard's tales or old granny stories. Thank you, sir."

"You said that my Boromir is alive and in Rohan. Why did he not accompany you?"

"Well, he was going to Edoras to help King Theoden get his army ready, I think." Pippin paused and frowned a moment, "Er, we--uh, left in such a hurry I'm afraid I wasn't really sure who was going where or why."

Gandalf made an impatient sound in his throat, and Denethor glared at him. "If our conversation is boring you, Mithrandir, you will find that your usual guest house is available for your use."

Pippin blinked and dared to glance up at the wizard's face for a moment

The Steward looked back at the Halfling. "By what name are you known, Master--Hobbit?"

"Peregrin Took, son of Paladin, of the Shire at your service, my Lord." Pippin answered and gave the Steward a bow. "But my friends all call me Pippin."

"Welcome to Minas Tirith, Peregrin Took, son of Paladin. Will you sit with me and give me news of how Boromir fares? We feared him dead when the Horn of Gondor was heard in the north a month past."

"I would be honoured to, my Lord. Actually, I think we all thought ourselves to be dead when Boromir blew his horn. There were so many orcs."

The Steward called for a page to bring chairs for Pippin and Gandalf, as the wizard had not taken up the hint to leave the ruler of Gondor and his diminutive guest alone.

Pippin looked askance at the height of the chair that was set down next to him and sighed, then began to scramble up into the seat that was designed for Men.

Denethor glanced from the tousled-haired hobbit and looked down at Faramir's bow, pushing back another wave of grief as the Hobbit's ascension into the Númenorean Chair reminded him of how his younger son would insist on climbing up himself, even though he was far too short to get onto the seat easily.

Gandalf "harrumphed" at Pippin's sigh of relief as the hobbit settled himself in the chair and looked at Denethor.

"What do you want to know, sir?"

"Start at the beginning, if you will, when you first met my son." Denethor motioned to the waiting black and silver clad page to fill cups with watered wine and to hand them to his guests. He set his own goblet down and looked into Pippin's face as the hobbit commenced the tale.

"It was at Rivendell, my Lord. I was feeling homesick the evening after the Council and went out into one of the gardens, and well, I sort of ran into Boromir. He was most kind about it, picking me up and making sure I hadn't knocked myself silly. It turned out that he was homesick, too, and we sat and talked about home. Though I must say, the city is even more beautiful than I imagined it from his description."

Despite his grief, the admiring admission pleased the Steward and Denethor nodded. "Go on."

"We got to become friends while we were waiting for Lord Elrond and Gandalf to decide when we were going to leave. That's when he started teaching me and my cousin, Merry--Meriadoc Brandybuck, that is--how to use our swords. He's a very good teacher, isn't he?"

"Aye, it is a gift he was granted by the Valar--although he never could teach his brother to actually enjoy swinging a sword." The Steward's face seemed to age slightly as, once again, mention of the elder son, brought to mind the lost younger.

Pippin smiled, "Oh, he would tell us such tales of his brother. About how he could shoot a bow almost better than an elf, and that if I wanted to hear tales of the people of long ago that Faramir told them better than anyone but his father--er, you."

Gandalf coughed lightly. "You were saying how you met Boromir..."

"Oh, that's right. Thank you, Gandalf. Anyways, while everything was being made ready for us to leave, Boromir and Merry and I, we got to be good friends. Though I think we benefited more than he did. It seems he was always getting Merry and me out of some sort of trouble or other. Like when we had to jump across a gap in that stair in Moria. Remember that Gandalf? It was far too wide for us to get across so Boromir picked us up and jumped across with one of us under each arm!"

The afternoon sank into evening as the hobbit chattered out his recollection of the months of travel together with Boromir, with the Steward asking well-aimed questions to clarify areas that seemed to be glossed over or to pull the hobbit back on track when he went into a tangent about familial relations and odd traditions of the Shire, and until Peregrin, having described their stop in Lothlorien and the boat trip down the Anduin through the Argonath, suddenly stumbled to a stop, and hesitated.

Denethor noted the way that the hobbit's green eyes sought out the wizard's as if for guidance on what to say next. He squeezed the bow tightly, pushed back a rising trickle of dread, and said, "It nears the time for the evening meal. Master Took, I would be pleased if you would be my guest this night. You may continue to tell me of your travels with my son as we dine, if you would." Before Gandalf could say anything, he turned to eye the wizard. "I will dine privately, in my apartments with the Master _Perian_. However, Mithrandir, I expect that you will wish once again to make use of the Archives." He drew a token from a pocket of his robe and tossed it towards the wizard. "This will give you free access to even those documents in the restricted sections that seem to draw your greatest interest. I will have young Peregrin escorted back to the guest house after we have finished speaking together."

He got to his feet, cradling the broken bow's pieces in his arm along with the White Rod, and Pippin scrambled down from the chair, landing lightly on his large, well-furred bare feet, while Gandalf loomed up from his own seat, a heartbeat too late for courtesy. Denethor gave him a sharp look, indicating that just because he would say nothing now, that he did not intend to be insulted in his own Citadel by the aged visitor.

He walked down the length of the Hall of Kings, the Halfling hurrying along at his side while Mithrandir stalked along behind, white brows lowered and bristling. Just as they approached the doors, they opened to admit a tall, dark haired noble-looking man bearing the image of a white swan on a pale blue background on his surcote.

"Imrahil!" Denethor halted as the travel-worn Prince bowed to him.

"My lord Steward, I heard dreadful tidings as I came up through the city--"

He interrupted the man, "Brother by law, I am about to dine. Please join me, and I will tell you what has happened." The pieces of wood he held made a light clatter as his grip on them shifted, drawing Imrahil's eyes.

He saw the Prince of Dol Amroth's face pale as he recognized the bow--for it was this man who had presented it to Faramir, as a gift for the son of Imrahil's beloved sister. "Come, Imrahil. Come, Master Took. Good evening, Mithrandir. I shall return your companion to you in due course."

Grief twisted inside him as they proceeded towards the stairs to his apartments. He was aware that the Hobbit was eyeing everything they passed with curiosity, but was also forbearing breaking into to the silence with which the two older Men surrounded themselves.

_One son is lost to captivity and the other rides free yet far from home. I am alone in this battle, and I fear that it will be lost. The Enemy's strength increases as ours diminishes and only a miracle will save us--only the intervention of the Gods._

The meal went well; the Hobbit's continuation of his tale of Boromir carried them through most of the courses. Denethor was amazed at the amount of food that Peregrin could consume, and thought privately that it was no wonder that Boromir had befriended the Shireling--they both had prodigious appetites!

As a page carried in the tray with the end of meal sweets, Peregrin concluded, "We all left Helm's Deep then, Boromir with Strider and King Theoden and Lord Eómer and Merry going to Edoras; and Gandalf and I came here on Shadowfax".

Denethor could tell that there were things that the Halfling had not told him, whether by unintended omission or by design, he could not yet tell. Master Took was somewhat reticent about just who the one he called "Strider" was and why he was a member of the Fellowship.

He decided to let that go for now. There would still be some time in which to draw the things that Peregrin hadn't revealed from the Hobbit. "It eases my soul," he remarked, "to know that my elder son has come through his travels relatively unscathed. I hope that he will join us here shortly, for we need him to lead our fighting as Captain-General." Denethor took a final sip from his goblet and set it down, then dropped his hand to stroke the pieces of wood that he still held in his lap.

Imrahil's lips tightened and then he finally asked, "Brother, tell me the portent of that which you hold? I heard it cried about the city that your son has been lost--and I thought at first it was Boromir, on that dangerous mission you sent him on. But now--Tell me. What has happened?"

Pippin was leaning back in his chair, raised up on several cushions to sit more easily at the table, nibbling on sweet white cake.

"Faramir--yesterday, he was captured in Ithilien," The grief that had been repressed all day would not be denied and he choked on it as he continued, "By a Ringwraith!"

"Valar!" The Prince of Dol Amroth poured wine with a shaking hand. "Faramir? But how?" He put down the bottle and stared at the Steward. "Is he still alive?"

Denethor shook his head, "I do not know. He was when he was taken, but it has been a full day since--Captain Anborn said he was wounded fighting the rear guard action after ordering the evacuation of Henneth Annun when a massive number of Southrons, and those orcs who do not fear daylight attacked. I could see him escaping them--but a Nazgúl?" He recounted to Imrahil what Anborn had described, all the while stroking the wood fragments that still lay in his lap.

Pippin unconsciously made sounds of horror and sympathy as the disaster was retold.

"He knows much of the defenses of this city, and the numbers of our forces. All men break, Brother. And I dread to think of what they will do to him to ensure it happens. Aii, my son, my Faramir!"

"He is strong," Imrahil comforted him once Denethor's voice trailed off into silence. "He is as strong willed as you are, and he will not allow anything that could cause harm to this City and this people to come to the Enemy. You know this."

Denethor covered his eyes with his hand, despairing, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair.

"My lord?"

He looked up and found the _Perian_, the Hobbit Peregrin Took kneeling by his chair. "Master Took--"

"Sir," Pippin began, "Lord Denethor, your son, Lord Boromir, is my friend. He saved my life more times than I can count. For what he did at Amon Hen, and in Rohan, I would repay him by ever being at his service. When we knew I was coming here, I promised him that I would give Lord Faramir the service that I owe Boromir. But as he is not here, I offer my service to you, Lord Steward, such as I may. I am just a Hobbit, and not a great warrior like your sons, but I would gladly serve you and the City Lord Boromir loves. I cannot replace the one you have lost, but for the love I bear your other son, I would do what I can to ease your burdens, my lord."

The Steward gazed at the earnest face of Peregrin and read the intent of his heart, and recognized the sincerity of the offer. "Master Took, I will accept your service on behalf of my sons--and with gratitude for the valiant heart that has offered it." He beckoned the Hobbit to rise. "Tomorrow, I will take your oath in the Hall of Kings, where such things are done according to our traditions. I will send one to you to teach you the words of the oath, and to provide suitable clothing for one in my service and the service of Gondor. Now, it grows late and I'm certain that Mithrandir must be chewing the rug of his chambers in the guest house fretting over what we have discussed this eve. Ask the guard at the door to attend me so I may have a guide summoned to escort you to Mithrandir."

Imrahil got to his feet and bowed to the Steward, "Brother, I must to my rest after the long journey and the grievous news of the day. I will take Master Took to his lodgings on my way to the Amroth Mansion."

"May the Valar watch over you this night--" Denethor began a traditional blessing.

"And may they bring back the ones you love into your sight," the Prince of Dol Amroth finished.

After his guests departed and the apartment was silent once more save for the slow drip of the water clock on the far side of the room, Denethor whispered, clutching Faramir's shattered bow tightly, "From your lips to the Valar's ears, brother by law."

TBC


	4. The Misgiving

_**A/N:** This is AU, splitting off from canon a few hours after Faramir sends Frodo and Samwise on their way with Gollum on 8 March. The hobbits and Gollum departed in the early morning, the overwhelming attack on the Refuge came from the north at mid-day, and Faramir ordered the retreat to Osgiliath before mid-afternoon. The running battle brought them to the east banks in the evening, and the Nazgul carried Faramir away just as twilight went into full dark. Anborn made it across Anduin, got hold of a horse and rode overnight to present the Lamentable Tidings to the Steward early on March 9th._

_**Warnings:** Emotionally intense, semi-graphic description and implication of personal violence. No slash._

_**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction, created solely for the enjoyment of the author and the readers at Fanfiction dot net. I am getting no monetary restitution for this work, and it is in no way intended to infringe on any copyrights or other intellectual property rights held by the Tolkien Estate, New Line Cinema, nor any other Lord of the Rings licensee._

**Lamentable Tidings - Chapter 4 - The Misgiving **

By Rhyselle

_9 March 3019, Afternoon - Morthond Vale Enroute to Pelargir_

Boromir's hackles were up, and he leaned forward on his borrowed mount, urging it onward next to Aragorn's Hasufel, as the Dunedain led the Rangers, Legolas, Gimli, and himself at the head of the Army of the Dead across the land, heading towards Pelargir to intercept the Corsairs of Umbar and prevent them from augmenting the Enemy's forces that were besieging Minas Tirith.

Aragorn glanced over at him, and called, "What is it, Boromir? Is your wound bothering you?"

The Steward's Heir shook his head, dismissing the shallow slash across his left shoulder blade from the Battle at Helm's Deep, and replied, "My shoulder is fine, but my mind misgives. I cannot shake this feeling that something is amiss with my brother, Faramir."

"He's in Ithilien, is he not? Or the City?"

"If he had his preference he'd be in the former, chasing down Southrons and Easterlings to deny He Whom We Do Not Name any advance into our lands. But he has been heavy on my mind this past day; and my dread grows."

Aragorn tipped his head in the mannerism that alternately aggravated and endeared him to Boromir, and suggested, "Perhaps you are merely confusing the aura of our new comrades in arms with that of your brother?"

Boromir shook his head again. "No, this is far worse." He leaned forward, encouraging his mount to pick up the pace yet again. "Let's get to Pelargir. The sooner we get rid of those Corsairs, the sooner I'll see my brother." He glanced back at the ghostly warriors who swept over the lands behind them, then gave a sudden shudder. Aragorn might try to explain it away, but he _knew_ in his heart and soul that something terrible had happened to Faramir.

_9 March 3019, Evening - Minas Morgul_

The orc let the gore-covered chain fall to the stone floor--the clatter of the links drowning out the repetitive hoarse moans of the convulsing ranger who lay bound by manacles face down before the Uruk-hai.

With the absence of the sound of the chain hissing through its arc and each blow's concluding meaty thud on the Steward's son's body, Faramir's continued vocalizations became understandable. He dug bloodied fingers into the stone floor of the cell and gasped out, _"For Gondor... For Gondor... never let fall... Father... For Gondor..."_ The words weren't much more than a whisper by this point, but they came clear, desperate, and defiant.

The one-eyed orc growled with disgust and, catching Faramir in the ribs with its iron-shod foot, kicked him over onto his mangled back, dropping to kneel on the White Tree embossed upon the leather jerkin; pinning down the Man as black clawed fingers clamped down across the open mouth and nose.

Grey eyes went wide as Faramir tried to suck air into compressed lungs and stared up at the distorted features in which could still be seen the vestiges of elven heritage that had been the ultimate genesis of the orc.

"You take my eye, I take _your_ eye," it growled in heavily accented Westron, brandishing a sharp dagger over Faramir's face.

The orc's weight was making the cartilage that held together the ends of Faramir's ribs separate, and the agony in his back was matched by the fire around Faramir's breastbone as he fought to inhale. The steel of the knife picked up the pallid illumination of the cell and concentrated it in a bright flash as the blade descended, slashing down from brow to cheekbone, across the ranger's left eye, deep into his flesh. Faramir's body abortively jerked as the parted flesh gave up a gush of crimson that covered his face and ran freely down his forehead and temple to coat his tangled hair with sticky warm fluid.

Faramir couldn't scream; he couldn't draw breath to do more than give a faint keen as the Uruk laughed and then licked the blood from the knife. But as he finally succumbed to the oblivion that had been denied him throughout the beating, his last thought was, "_For Gondor... "_

TBC


	5. The Interrogation

_**A/N:** This is AU, splitting off from canon a few hours after Faramir sends Frodo and Samwise on their way with Gollum on 8 March. _

_**Warnings:** Emotionally intense, semi-graphic description and implication of personal violence. No slash._

_**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction, created solely for the enjoyment of the author and the readers at Fanfiction dot net. I am getting no monetary restitution for this work, and it is in no way intended to infringe on any copyrights or other intellectual property rights held by the Tolkien Estate, New Line Cinema, nor any other Lord of the Rings licensee._

**Lamentable Tidings - Chapter 5 - The Interrogation**

by Rhyselle

_10 March 3019, Morning - Minas Morgul_

Faramir knelt between two massive orcs who kept him from falling over by their merciless grasp on his upper arms. Without them there was no way he would have been able to support himself as the Chief Nazgûl loomed over him, invisible hand clenched in the Ranger's hair, the Black Breath enfolding him, and chasing away what little warmth Faramir had left as it filled him with despair. It felt as if blades of ice were piercing his head as the Witch-king forced its way into the Steward's son's mind to seek out why it could sense something of the One Ring about the Man.

"NO!" The scream was both physical and mental as Faramir slammed up the mental barriers that he'd learned to form years ago to preserve his privacy from his father's ability to see into the hearts and minds of Men.

The Witch-king was not expecting such a reaction to its intrusion and found itself blocked out, and staring down into two grey eyes that had gone flat and reflective in their surround of bruises and dried blood from the gash which the orc had expertly made without actually blinding the Man. The wound had been smeared with the orc's healing paste, but the now dark line somehow did not destroy the underlying handsomeness and nobility derived from Ranger's Númenorean heritage. The pale face under the tangle of dark hair was gaunt with pain, and thirst, and hunger, but also bore an expression of implacable resolve.

Faramir reeled as Angmar screeched in annoyance and impatience. Using the Black Speech, it snapped to Khamûl, "He knows something of the Ring--I could sense that much. The Army marches within the hour. Take him, Khamûl," it gave Faramir's hair a rough jerk that ripped out a handful of long strands, "to the Master. I have no time to break through his barriers." The Ringwraith released its icy grip, letting the Man's head drop.

The wraith who had captured Faramir bowed to the Witch-king even as the angry Chief Nazgûl strode towards the courtyard where its mount awaited it.

The Steward's younger son lolled like a doll carried carelessly by a child as the orcs dragged him back to the cell from which he'd been taken to be questioned by the Lord of the Nazgûl. Khamûl watched the Man out of sight before giving its own orders as to the preparation of its own steed, one of the Fell Beasts. As an afterthought, it ordered that Faramir be given water and a dose of orc draught. It would not do to deliver a dead prisoner to Barad-dûr.

- - - - -

Faramir lay, still bound, still in great pain, in the dimly lit cell, fighting against the despair and terror in his mind; veering away from the wall that protected the knowledge that the Nazgûl and the Dark Lord would use to subjugate all of the Free Peoples, and concluded that the only option was to escape.

_I cannot break these chains and can hardly support my broken body on my own feet--but there are other manners of escaping captivity. I cannot hide the fact that I am hiding something of value from them. They are determined to break me. Given enough time, they **will** break me. The only reason Father never got past my shields was that he never brought the full brunt of his own mind against mine. The only way to escape them is to die. They will not kill me so I must do it myself, somehow. The Valar may never forgive me for suicide, but roaming between Arda and what lies beyond is vastly preferable to going through the Veil knowing that I have betrayed those whose safety is predicated on my silence._

His thoughts were disrupted as the door to the cell opened once more, admitting another orc. Before he could scramble away from it, his abused body unable to react quickly enough, it had grabbed him by the hair and shoved a greasy water skin against his dried and cracked lips.

The brackish fluid choked him as it flooded his mouth and he automatically swallowed some of it down before he realized that this was his chance. Faramir forced himself to fight against the self-preservation instinct and let the fluid fill the back of his throat until his need to breathe caused him to drag the liquid down his windpipe as he inhaled.

"Oi!, no ye don't!" The orc's Westron was loud and fairly understandable at it realized what Faramir was trying to do.

It slammed a hand down on the Man's solar plexus, forcing out what air had been in his lungs, and causing Faramir to spew out the water with which he'd tried to drown himself. There came the sharp pain of ribs breaking, and the worse pain of realizing that he'd lost his chance. He rolled half on his side, soaked by the fluid he'd expelled, coughing violently.

The orc waited until the fit stopped and hauled Faramir upright. It dropped the now empty water skin on the floor and pulled a flask from somewhere in the ragged leather and iron armor it wore. "Drink," it ordered and tipped Faramir's head back, dribbling the foul, sharp-smelling medicinal draught into his mouth. "Swallow!" Putting away the flask, the orc clapped a hand over Faramir's mouth and nose. Weakened further by the abortive suicide attempt, Faramir choked down the draught. It burned like fire as it trickled into his stomach and he gagged on it against the orc's grip on his face, but the pain in his chest began to ease. "That'll keep ye alive 'til ye get to Lugburz." It let the Ranger drop back to the now wet floor and departed, scooping up the water skin from the puddle in which it had lain.

_There must be a way._ Despair wrapped around him like a cloak, and he felt hot tears trickling down from his eyes into the soiled hair at his temples. _There must be a way, if only I can find it._

- - - - -

_10 March 3019, Mid-day - Minas Morgul_

His clothing still wet from his attempt to drown himself, Faramir could not stop shivering as the Nazgûl Khamûl reached down and hauled him from the grip of the orcs who had dragged him from the cell along interminable corridors and stairs to a courtyard which was practically filled by the immense winged body of the Fell Beast.

He couldn't see the hands that seized him and placed him at the front of the Wraith's seat on the black harness, nor the arm within the sleeve that clamped across his chest. But they were freezing, the cold penetrating Faramir's clothing and making him lean back, away from its icy pressure--only to cry out as his mangled back pressed against Khamûl's black-robed body. Pinned by the Ringwraith, his arms bound to his sides by chains and manacles, the Ranger tried to wrench himself free, but the orcs had reached up to seize his legs, one on either side of the beast's sinuous neck, and bound them to the riding harness.

The hope that had crossed his mind when he'd first seen the monster, of throwing himself from it while in midair, were dashed.

_Barad-dû__r. It's taking me to Barad-dû__r._ Faramir felt the terror well up inside of him as the winged creature gave a strong down stroke and leapt for the murky sky. Its foul odor blew into Faramir's face from the movement, and the Man nearly retched.

"Look, Steward's son, and see the doom of your city," hissed Khamûl in Westron, turning his steed to face west as they cleared the walls of the corrupted city.

Faramir stared at the torchlit road leading over the causeway and towards the crossroads at the limits of his vision. It was black with armored orcs, the clashing sounds of their weapons and armor and the regular thudding beat of their march audible to him even as the Fell Beast caught an updraft and spiraled up towards the ridges that separated Minas Morgul from Mordor itself.

_Even if Gondor's Army were five times its number, we would not have enough men to stand up against this foul array. Father, have you summoned the Rohirrim yet? Have you sent the Red Arrow? Even if they do fulfill their obligation to Gondor, will they come in time? Aiii, if only we had the strength of ancient Númenor we might have a prayer--_

Faramir closed his eyes to block out the sight, his shoulders slumped. Khamûl gave another laugh and, placing a hand between Faramir's shoulder blades, shoved him down to lay against the foul smelling neck, pinning him there. The Fell Beast beat its wings harder, spiraling to catch an updraft, its breath beginning to condense as it rose higher into the murky sky. The cold air chilled Faramir's lungs as he breathed, and by the time Khamûl had directed the hideous monster over the razor sharp ridges of the Mountains of shadow, flying east, the only part of him that was warm was where he pressed against the warm flesh of the Fell Beast's neck.

_If I look down, I wonder if I could see--_Faramir slammed the door on the thought, appalled that he had come so close to thinking consciously about the hobbits and their mission. He opened his eyes, lifted his head, and saw the massive bulk of Mount Doom far ahead, glowing redly beneath the black clouds that roiled up from its summit and spread out to hide all sign of starlight or moonlight or the sun. As he stared at the flickering hellish light generated by the molten rock that alternately tore away at Mount Doom's structure and rebuilt it by laying down new layers of pyroclastic material, he remembered Isildur, and how his own ancestor's brother was unable to destroy the Enemy's greatest weapon in the earliest years of the Third Age. Where would he, Faramir, be now, had the younger son of Elendil responded to the Lord Elrond's urging and thrown Sauron's Ring into the fire from whence it had come? Would Isildur have lived to see his oldest son, instead of his youngest, take the crown in his stead when the ruler of Arnor chose to lay down his life at the last?

Faramir went dead still, his breath caught in his throat as the thought reverberated in his mind. Khamûl didn't seem to notice, for, at that moment, the flying creature screamed and made a sudden swoop to the side and an abrupt dive towards the rugged black ground far below. The Ranger's eyes burned from the cold wind, and he cried out as the Fell Beast abruptly curved its wings and pulled out of the dive, having snatched up a stray goblin-orc that had straggled off from its company marching along the north-south road along eastern side of the Mountains of Shadow.

The creature resumed its original altitude, tossing its head as it swallowed the goblin-orc whole, the muscles in the Fell Beast's neck rippling against Faramir's tied-down legs, and continued towards the Mountain of Fire. Khamûl shoved Faramir's face into the steed's neck by means of a merciless grip on the back of the Ranger's neck.

_In the archives, I read the old accounts. It was not only the King who could choose to lay down his life at will, but all of those who came from Westernesse. Their blood runs strong in my veins--I've studied the genealogies enough to know this is true. Is it strong enough that I might be able to will my own death before I betray those whom I must protect?_

For the first time in two long days, Faramir felt a spark of hope warm inside his freezing body and heart. He tucked it away, behind the barrier he'd built within his mind, so that the Nazgûl would not be able to crush it out of existence, and closed his eyes against the freezing air stream, shutting out the desolation of Morder, and bringing from his memory the image of the gentle greening of Ithilien in the spring.

- - - - -

_10 March 3019, Noon - Minas Tirith_

Denethor sat slightly slumped in the Black Steward's chair, exhausted from his night of little sleep and many nightmares regarding the fate of Faramir. He held his rod of office cradled in the corner of his elbow and watched the small black and silver clad figure slowly approach him down the length of the Hall of Kings. He ignored the glowering wizard who stood to the side next to Imrahil near Council members who surrounded the map table, and remembered the last time that diminutive uniform of the Citadel Guard had been worn.

_"… to come and to go, in need or in plenty, in peace or in war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end."_

"_And this do I hear, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance."_

_The small hands held within his own had stopped their trembling as the child had recited the oath, gazing up into the Steward's grey eyes. Denethor kept his mien stern and sober for another few moments, to signify the dignity of the moment, but then his face softened into a smile. "Rise, Lord Faramir of Gondor. Thy father is proud of thee." And a moment later he was being half strangled as his youngest son threw velvet and mail-clad arms around his neck and a kiss was pressed on his cheek._

The _Perian_, Peregrin Took, dropped to one knee before him, and bowed his head, drawing the Steward's attention back to the present.

Denethor laid the White Rod on the arm of the black stone chair and extended his hands to take the smaller ones between them. He let his eyes drop to the silver embroidery of the White Tree on the chest of the velvet surcote and swallowed as a flicker of memory rose in his mind of his Finduilas sitting by the window of his study, quietly sewing on the garment while he worked through the documents on his desk, and the two boys were curled up on the hearthrug with the hounds, playing army with their lead soldiers.

Raising his grey eyes to meet the Hobbit's green ones, he nodded, and the words of the oath filled the hall, steady and clear. He saw sympathy and resolve in Peregrin's gaze, and, knowing that his newest liegeman had sensed his despair, he gently squeezed the fingers between his own and made his own half of the oath before releasing them.

"I thank thee, Master Took, Guard of the Citadel, for thy fealty and thy commitment to Gondor. Rise." He picked up the White Rod and cradled it once more as he wearily stood and turned his gaze towards the White Wizard and his brother by law.

"Now that this foolishness is done, we must plan to meet the coming attack," Gandalf said testily, clenching his hands on his staff. "The beacons must be lit to summon in the last of the reserve forces to the City, and the non-combatants must be sent to the places of Refuge."

Imrahil opened his mouth to protest the wizard's assumption of leadership, but Denethor raised one hand to halt him.

He let his gaze travel over the men present and told them, "There is no hope that Gondor and the free lands may withstand the coming might of the Dark Lord's armies. Darkness is covering Arda and we are at the end of times. I am weary. Do as you will." He took a step and staggered, and reached out for Peregrin's shoulder to support himself. "Attend me to my chambers, Master Took."

He turned and made his way slowly down the long hall, closing his ears and mind against the babble of voices that rang out in the chamber as the Council of Gondor reacted to his pronouncement.

He barely acknowledged the salutes of the sentries posted along the corridors until he reached his own rooms again. The soldiers stationed at the doors opened them for him and the Steward moved to sink heavily onto the chaise near the window that looked out upon the Pelennor. "You are dismissed to the buttery and your midday meal, Peregrin. Afterwards, you will meet with the Watch Captain and receive the passwords and your place in the sentry schedule. I will not require your services for the rest of this day. But be ready to attend me prior to the break of fast in the morning."

He reached out to touch the broken bow that rested on the table nearest the chaise.

"My lord, is there nothing that I can do for you right now?" Pippin asked, tilting his head worriedly. "Should I send for a meal for you?"

"You reminded me of him. He, too, understood the seriousness of the oath he was taking, and also walked to me with dignity and spoke just as clearly as you did. And," Denethor smiled sadly, "the uniform was a bit too large on him, as well. My lady wife was a bit optimistic on what his breadth of shoulder would be, after having made Boromir's surcote."

He drew the bow onto his lap and bowed over it. "Go, Master Took. I will expect you in the morning."

As the door closed behind the departing Citadel Guard, he looked out the window towards the distant Mountains of Shadow.

_Faramir. Are you strong enough? Can you resist them? I want to believe that you can, but my gentle son, I doubt. Forgive me, but I doubt that any can withstand the evil power that holds you in its grasp._

- - - - -

_10 March 3019, Afternoon - Mordor_

Three hours after departing Minas Morgul, Faramir's limbs were numbed from the cold, and his cramped muscles had locked him in place astride the Fell Beast so that, even if his legs had not been secured, there was no way he could have moved, much less thrown himself clear. Khamûl grabbed at his hair and pulled Faramir's drooping head upright, wrenching at frozen muscles in his neck and shoulders. His eyes streamed painfully, and the tears froze on his cheeks and in his beard as the cold wind bit at him.

"Look your last upon Middle-earth, Captain Faramir of Hurin, before you bow down and succumb to my Master's will." The Ringwraith laughed as the Ranger stared blurry-eyed at the immense black tower with its many spires, windows and courtyards that teemed with the minions of the Dark Lord. Another jerk aimed Faramir's gaze to the very top of the Tower, where a window looked west towards Mount Doom, and he saw that it glowed with an evil, unearthly red that was even more horrifying than the violent magma that had churned from the fissures in the flanks of the volcano as the Fell Beast had swooped around it well over an hour before.

Was there a word capable of describing the dread, and terror, and despair that nearly overwhelmed him? In all of his studies of Sindarin, Quenya, and the other languages of Middle Earth, he had never found any expression that could adequately convey what he now felt as the flying steed went into a plummeting thousand-foot dive, carrying its passengers into the shadow of the Tower, aiming for a large balcony more than halfway up the massive structure.

As they swept into the darkness of the shadowed arch, Faramir _knew_ that he would not be returning from this place—would never again see his father nor his brother nor the White City that was his home, in the flesh.

TBC


	6. The Seeing Stone

_**A/N:** This is AU, splitting off from canon a few hours after Faramir sends Frodo and Samwise on their way with Gollum on 8 March. _

_**Warnings:** Emotionally intense, semi-graphic description and implication of personal violence. No slash._

_**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction, created solely for the enjoyment of the author and the readers at Fanfiction dot net. I am getting no monetary restitution for this work, and it is in no way intended to infringe on any copyrights or other intellectual property rights held by the Tolkien Estate, New Line Cinema, nor any other Lord of the Rings licensee._

**Lamentable Tidings - Chapter 6 - The Seeing Stone**

by Rhyselle**  
**

_11 March 3019, Midnight - Minas Tirith_

The fire had long gone out, and the Steward sat in the darkness of his rooms, staring out of the window at the sparks of light out along the Rammas Echor, marking the guard posts where the Army of Gondor watched towards the River and the lands beyond for the approach of the Enemy, which they all knew was coming, even if they did not know when.

Other lights marked the farmsteads from which the non-combatants were gathering their families together to travel into the White Mountains to the places of refuge, and those already traveling the roads which led there. He had given orders that all of the evacuations must be complete within the next twenty-four hours, and he now wondered if he had waited too long.

_They will die anyway, be they here on the Pelennor, or in the mountains. I can see no hope for them, or any of us. Yet, Faramir would have argued for them to flee, to live even another day in defiance of the Dark Lord. How has he been able to hold on to hope like he has over these past years? Why did I not recognize this as his strength? In Osgiliath… In Ithilien… Does he still hope? _

Denethor curled his fingers around the pieces of bow one more time and then sat them carefully on the table, before getting to his feet. He had to pause and rub at the ache in his hip that came from sitting too long--the penalty of his years as a soldier before he had assumed his departed father's place on the Black Chair. He moved towards the fireplace in his study and lit a candle from the firelighter that lay on the ledge there. A touch to a hidden trigger; and a section of wall slid back and then pivoted to the side, revealing a passage into which he stepped, taking the flickering light with him.

_I have to know how he fares. _

- - - - -

_11 March 3019, Midnight - Barad-dûr_

The cell into which they locked him, after dragging him from the neck of the Fell Beast and forcing an orc draught down his throat, was cold and damp; aggravating the violent shivering that had taken hold of him and refused to stop. His hands and feet had gone numb from the freezing air that had rushed over them as the Nazgûl had raced towards Barad-ur, but made themselves painfully known as they began to thaw. The frost that rimed his clothing so far above the ground had melted, adding to his misery.

The muscles in his thighs and calves cramped intermittently as they rebelled against the hours of enforced immobility, and even untold hours later, continued to seize. The orcs had left his legs unbound, but the close dimensions of the windowless cell prevented him from stretching out. If he sat propped against the wall, the chains that still wrapped his upper body pressed into his back. If he leaned forwards, his broken ribs screamed in protest.

The orc draught was the only thing even close to sustenance they'd given to him, and his stomach roiled in protest. Hunger, thirst, cold, pain--all racked his body as he lay half curled on his side in the dark, terror beating at his cold-slowed mind like a drum.

In the darkness, he had no sense of the time passing, unable to use even his heartbeat to count the minutes; it beat erratically as his body gradually, agonizingly, recovered from hypothermia. But eventually, his thoughts began to come clearer, although they were still fragmented.

_So cold… I'll never be warm again… so dark… They haven't found it yet… that army… Father, do you know they are coming? You always seemed to know things… things you oughtn't have. Why haven't they questioned me yet? Brother, are you yet alive? We've had no word for so long… Are you afraid?_

_I am._

- - - - -

_Minas Tirith_

The candle flame flickered as Denethor emerged from the far end of the secret passage, onto a landing that led to a turnpike stair leading up, and a wider straight stair leading down. The Steward listened carefully to determine if the guards at the bottom of Ecthelion's Tower had heard him; then turned and silently moved up the curved steps.

Reaching the top, he drew a key from his robes, and unlocked the chamber that was closed to all save himself. He used the candle to light his way to the cloth-draped pillar that loomed in the center of the room, and drew the material aside, setting the candlestick down behind him.

The heart of the seeing stone flickered green and then red, and he hesitated a moment before placing his hands on the cool polished surface.

Denethor dragged in a deep breath and pushed his mind into the crystal, demanding that it show him what he desired.

_Show me my son!_

- - - - -

_Barad-dûr_

The torch blinded Faramir as the door of the cell was wrenched open, and before his dazzled eyes recovered, he had been seized and dragged a significant distance along corridors and up a series of turnpike stairs. By the time he could see clearly again, he was completely disoriented.

The huge Uruk-hai who hauled him along did not give him any chance to get his feet under himself until they finally reached the top. He found his heart pounding as they paused in front of a heavy black door that was guarded by a pair of even more immense orcs--and the black-robed form of the Ringwraith.

Khamûl loomed over him and took hold of the back of his neck, "All of your resistance is useless, Steward's son. You will bow down before the Lord of Arda, and submit."

Faramir glared into the empty hood, summoning his resolve despite his fear, "Lord of Arda he may claim, but he will never succeed as long as any hope remains in the hearts of men. I may be forced to bow, but I will never submit."

"Still defiant? Not for long."

The Nazgûl tightened its grip on the back of Faramir's neck, the door was flung open and the Ranger was thrown to his knees on the black flagstones that floored the room. He overbalanced and tipped forward, but Khamûl grabbed him by the hair and jerked him upright once more, even as the Nazgûl went to its own knees behind the Steward's son.

All of Faramir's hackles rose, and the terror and fear that had accompanied him over the past days overwhelmed him as he stared up at the tall shadowy figure that loomed above him; one moment, emulating the form of a man, the next it rippled nauseatingly, and several scaled tentacles emerged from the neck and lower jaw. It continued to shift shape, each change more horrendous than the last. The only thing that remained the same were the red eyes which were the center of each manifestation; and the flames that appeared to ghost over the surface of his robes and randomly changing skin—now smooth and waxen, now scaled, now leprous.

**_He knows of the Ring._**

Faramir shuddered as the voice filled his head. If he could have raised his hands to his ears, he would have covered them, although it would have made no difference.

It was overwhelming, the presence of evil and domination, and he quailed before it, despite his resolve.

_**Where is It?** _Sauron demanded.

"I do not know!" Faramir cried out, truthfully; for he did not know the Ring's current location. He twisted his head to the side despite Khamûl's grip on his dark locks, wrenching his eyes away from the Dark Lord's writhing figure.

_**I will have it from you, mortal. **_

Faramir screamed as the voice suddenly became icy, fiery claws filling his head with pain as Sauron laid hands on the Ranger's forehead, and began to sift through his surface thoughts.

- - - - -

_Minas Tirith_

Denethor curled his fingers across the smooth surface of the Palantir and forced it to look eastward. The trees of Ithilien swept across his sight, and then the Mountains of Shadow loomed. He sought the city of Minas Morgul and shook with dread as the pallid glow of the walls came clear in the stone. Countless orcs and Uruk-hai marched from the main gate, chanting in Black Speech, hideous in the torchlight and heading steadily westward.

_Show me my son!_ he insisted, and the vision in the stone abruptly swirled and twisted into a maelstrom of darkness and fire.

The Steward bent his mind to his desire and pressed harder against that which was working against him, and suddenly it gave way, the vision within the Palantir cleared, and he saw Faramir's face and heard his son's scream in his mind.

**_Denethor, son of Ecthelion, behold your son!_ **

He staggered as the Dark Lord's thought slammed into his mind, but held firm to the seeing stone, and focused on his son. He saw the orc-healed gash down across Faramir's brow and cheek bone, and whispered, "What has been done to you?"

**_Will you bargain your City, your rule, for his life, Steward of Gondor? Or will you continue to wait for a King who will never come?_**

- - - - -

_Barad-dûr_

Suddenly the Dark Lord was out of Faramir's mind, and he sagged in Khamûl's grasp as Sauron let go of him, and made a gesture with a four-fingered hand. Suddenly the chains fell away from the Man's chest, leaving his wrists manacled before him.

_**Take him to the Palantir.** _The red eye gleamed and Sauron stepped to the side, revealing a plinth that held a dark glass orb which flickered with greenish light. **_Someone wishes to see him._**

The Ringwraith rose, again hauling Faramir to his feet, and forced him across the floor to stand in front of the stone. Cold invisible hands grabbed his manacled wrists and placed his palms on the smooth stone. He tried to drag his eyes away from the mesmerizing orb, unsuccessfully, and then Sauron's hands were on top of his own. He attempted to pull away as his skin seemed to burn at the touch, but the Dark Lord held him in place with his nine-fingered grasp.

**_You consider yourself knowledgeable of lore; do you not recognize the seeing stone, Faramir, son of Denethor?_**

At the sound of his father's name, the middle of the stone flashed green and then red, and then Denethor appeared in it, seemingly looking right at him.

At that moment Sauron struck again at Faramir's mind, and he screamed again, his knees buckling.

**_Denethor, son of Ecthelion, behold your son!_ **

Sauron's words echoed in Faramir's mind, and he realized that this wasn't just a vision created by the Dark Lord, but that his father actually was on the far side of the link that connected another seeing stone to this Palantir.

The Dark Lord continued to speak both in Faramir's mind and to Denethor's. **_Will you bargain your City, your rule, for his life, Steward of Gondor? Or will you continue to wait for a King who will never come?_**

"No, Father! Don't--!" The Ranger pulled his wits together and pushed his thought at the stone, praying that his father would hear him. _Don't bargain with him. I swore to live and die for Gondor, and I will **not** break my oath!_

He did not know what his father's reply would be; for Sauron threw him away from the Palantir and flung him to the floor, breaking the connection.

Sauron tilted his head to the side as the red eyes regarded the fallen Ranger who lay at the silent Nazgûl's feet. **_Live and die for Gondor? You will wish for death but it will not find you, Faramir son of Denethor. You are weak. Gondor is but the weak, decadent shadow of Númenor, and will be even easier to destroy._**

Faramir stood slowly, breathing shallowly to ease his broken ribs, and lifted his head proudly. "You do not recognize what strength there is in free men--and that will be your downfall."

- - - - -

_Minas Tirith_

"Faramir!" Denethor gasped as he felt the touch of his son's mind through the Stone. _My son--!_

He shook as green light flared and ebbed in the stone, and the brief touch abruptly vanished beneath a wave of anger and evil as Sauron once again took control of the Palantir. He watched his son land hard on the floor, curling on his side as if in great pain for several long seconds, then struggle up onto his knees and then, finally, slowly to his feet, his head high.

He saw that Faramir said something, but the Dark Lord did not permit anything except his rage to come through to Denethor. The Steward's breath caught as his son was struck down by an Uruk, and then pinned down to the floor as two others moved in.

He watched, helplessly, as they seized his son's left leg and gave a mighty wrench. Faramir arched against their hands, and went limp, his eyes rolling up and then closing.

Hunched over the Palantir, Denethor keened to himself as Sauron fed him, through the seeing stone, a taste of the agony his son was suffering.

They poured a dark, viscous liquid down Faramir's throat, rousing him, and shifted their grip from the knee to the upper thigh, looking towards the Dark Lord, apparently waiting for further instructions.

_- - - - -_

_Barad-dûr_

_**You have seen It. Tell me where It is.**_

"Join your Master in the Outer Darkness!" Faramir rasped, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

Pain fragmented his thoughts as the Orcs dislocated his left hip with one sharp move, and his mind went black again until, once more, they half-drowned him with the orc restorative. He retched from the fluid and the agony, and lay panting on the floor as the Dark Lord bent over him and again invaded his mind.

Faramir poured his will into the barrier protecting his knowledge of Frodo, Sam and their quest, as well as the knowledge of the defenses of Minas Tirith and the secret ways in and out of the city that he knew as son of the Steward. This knowledge was the salvation of Middle-earth and his honour would be forever forfeit if he allowed the Dark Lord to obtain it. He remembered, barely in time, to show resistance to the invasion of the surface layers lest Sauron realize just where the knowledge he truly sought resided.

As Sauron plowed through the memories that Faramir had left unprotected, images flashed through his mind; scents and sensations, sounds and voices. The City streets, Ithilien, streams rushing through leafy glades, flashes of scarlet and gold and the hissing of arrows flying towards their targets, the faces of his men, Damrod and Anborn, and those who called him Captain with respect and who had followed him under the very wings of death to protect their land. His last sight of his brother, on horseback, departing on a journey triggered by a dream.

_**Ah!** _Sauron pounced on the memory and began to sift deeper for the vision that had engendered the quest, and Faramir closed the door on it, not expecting it to hold, but keeping Sauron's attention focused there.

_I mustn't… Imladris… counsels taken stronger than Morgul spells… No! …Token that Doom is near at hand… Isildur's Bane… NO! …Shall stand… _

Rage and anger slammed into his mind, as Sauron realized that this was intelligence he already knew about. The Dark Lord's body quickly writhed from one form to another as his anger lessened his control over the external manifestation of his identity as Lord of Chaos; and his eyes flared redly into Faramir's as the hands he pressed against the Ranger's forehead shifted from manlike to orcish claws, to scaled appendages. And always the right hand lacked the ring finger.

Faramir screamed again as the Uruks dislocated another joint, according to Sauron's command.

_**Wish for death, child of Gondor; it will elude you until you grant me what I desire.**_

"Go thou to Udun's pits!"

- - - - -

_Minas Tirith_

Tears slipped down the Steward's cheeks as he was caught between wanting to escape the horror he witnessed through the Palantir, and not wanting to abandon his younger son to suffer alone.

Denethor's horror turned into rage as he watched the orcs methodically break his son's joints one by one; the rage turned into pride as he saw Faramir continue to faint from pain, be roused, and still defy Sauron's interrogation as the pre-dawn hours passed. Why had he ever considered Boromir to be the stronger of the two?

Suddenly, Faramir was swept up from the floor and held suspended by cruel orc hands gripping dislocated shoulders, in front of the Palantir of Barad-dûr.

_**Mayhap you will listen to your father as he tells you that resistance is useless. He has already given up. No hope remains for Gondor, Faramir of Hurin, and what you try to hide will be known to me eventually.**_

Denethor echoed Faramir's moans as broken wrists were seized and crushed fingers were placed on the seeing stone. The Steward reeled as the fullness of his son's pain was channeled to him by Sauron's malicious will. _Oh, my son!_

_Father… _Faramir's mental voice came faintly but insistently. _Hold on to hope… there IS hope, I have seen it… _

Along with the words, Denethor caught a glimpse a shining wall in Faramir's mind—like as to the mithril-laced doors to the great vaults below Minas Tirith in which were kept the most precious of Gondor's treasures.

**_You have failed, young Ranger!_** Sauron's voice was triumphant as he picked up on the mental barrier. **_You will open to me, if it takes pain and fire and torment unceasing, to show me what I wish to know!_**

Another wave of torturous hurt washed the momentary image away, and Denethor saw Faramir's right hand lifted from the stone.

_Resist him, Faramir! I know that you are strong, your honour is great! Although I have not said it as I ought, I do **love** you! _The Steward thrust his thoughts and will across the link to his son, praying that they would be heard through the agony that suddenly seized the Men who were linked.

His own right hand felt the bite of the serrated blade that sawed into Faramir's wrist, and Denethor shrieked in unison with his son as the orc's knife bit bone.

And then all went black as the orc severed the Steward's son's right hand and the Dark Lord severed the Palantir's link to the Anor stone.

TBC


	7. The Vow

_**A/N:** A longer chapter this time, but I couldn't find an earlier break point that worked. To clarify things, there are several points where this tale breaks from canon: Faramir is captured by the Nazgul on 8 March after sending Frodo and Sam on their way from Henneth Annun; Boromir is not killed at Amon Hen and accompanies Aragorn across Rohan and on the Paths of the Dead; and after Gandalf turns the Orthanc Stone over to Aragorn, the Dunadain does not attempt to use it prior to taking the Paths of the Dead._

_Thank you to my twin sister **dancingkatz** who not only gave me so much of her time to do really in-depth beta editing, but also got into Pippin's head when Denethor wouldn't let me out of his. I couldn't do this without you, sis!_

_**Warnings: ** Emotionally intense, semi-graphic description and implication of personal violence. No slash._

_**Disclaimer: ** This is a work of fan fiction, created solely for the enjoyment of the author and the readers at Fanfiction dot net. I am getting no monetary restitution for this work, and it is in no way intended to infringe on any copyrights or other intellectual property rights held by the Tolkien Estate, New Line Cinema, nor any other Lord of the Rings licensee._

**Lamentable Tidings – Chapter Seven – The Vow**

by Rhyselle

_11 March 3019 - Dawn - Barad-dūr_

Faramir remained conscious long enough to feel when the bloody stump of his wrist was pressed against the hot coals in the brazier that glowed in the far corner of Sauron's Palantir chamber. The pain from the cauterization was just another layer added to the agony that tore through his body, and he welcomed the grey fog that tunneled his vision and drew him down into oblivion.. As his consciousness sank into blessed, blessed darkness, he clung to his resolve to fight until the very end, strengthened more that he ever could have thought possible by the final words of his father: _"I love you"_.

- - - - -

Sauron snarled at the insensate figure sprawled at his feet, and turned to Khamūl. **_Go and take up your duties to command the forces attacking the Elven hosts of Lorien and Mirkwood. This one is no longer your concern._**

The Nazgūl bowed deeply and left the tower room, leaving the Dark Lord to fume that this Man had dared to defy him; to resist his will.

_**Even his strength and conviction will fail in the end, and I will pluck the knowledge I seek from his mind at the very gates of death if I must.**_

Leaving Faramir laying on the floor near the brazier, Sauron ordered the orcs to other duties and turned his attention to directing the outthrust of his massed forces on their multi-pronged attack on the Free Peoples. By attacking Gondor and the Elven realms at the same time, he would prevent them from allying with each other, and thus weaken the defenses of both the First and the Second born.

He dismissed any aid that the Rohirrim might be able to give to Minas Tirith, although it still disturbed him that the corrupted Wizard, Saruman, had apparently vanished along with his Halfling prisoner shortly after the terrified being had been forced to look into the Orthanc stone. Who would have thought the Horselords to be smart enough to break the dam on the River Isen and let the ensuing flood destroy the Wizard's works? Once he'd dealt with Gondor and destroyed the strength of the Golden and Green woods, he'd send all of his Nazgūl to comb through the flooded pits and cellars and dungeons of Orthanc, and recover his Treasure.

- - - - -

_11 March 3019 - Dawn - Minas Tirith_

Denethor knelt on the marble floor of the topmost chamber of Ecthelion's tower, cradling his right wrist in his lap, his head bowed, his cheeks wet with tears, as he slowly recovered from the shock of feeling the brutal amputation of his younger son's hand.

The burnt out candlestick lay on the floor beside him as the dark night lightened into a grim, murky morning reeking of despair and fear.

_Did Faramir hear me at the last? Could he tell that I truly do love him? He said there was hope. He told me to hold on to it. He suffers to preserve us; he fights to give us time._

_Can I do no less than he?_

Denethor straightened his back and lifted his head. _Faramir, my son, I do not have any hope but in you. Your strength is what will carry me onward, even unto the end. You are lost to me, but I will not give up this City--_our_ city--unfought, and I will stand against Mordor even if I am the very last Man in Gondor and none come to our aid. By the Valar, and the One, I vow that when we meet beyond the circles of this world, you will not have cause to be ashamed of your father._

The Steward got to his feet, tossed the black cloth over the Palantir that he knew that he would never again touch, and went down from the Tower to order his City and its people to the defense of their land.

- - - - -

_11 March 3019 - Dawn - Somewhere southeast of the Ringlo Vale in Western Gondor, enroute to Pelargir  
_

"You look terrible." Legolas boosted Gimli up onto Arod's back and looked soberly at his Gondorian friend.

Boromir gave the elf a tired glare and then rolled his eyes. "Despite our feat in crossing practically the entirety of Rohan mostly on foot with no rest, I do need some proper sleep; unlike some I could name." He picked up Brego's near forefoot and checked the hoof for stones and damage before they mounted up once more to continue their race to intercept the Corsair fleet at Pelargir.

"Plenty of time to sleep when we are dead," the dwarf pronounced, settling himself on the leather cushion that one of the Rohirrim in Dunharrow had thoughtfully provided when it was made plain that Gimli would not ride on his own. "Come on, the sooner we leave the sooner I can get my feet back on the ground."

Satisfied that the punishing pace of the journey had not harmed his war horse, Boromir mounted and made to move to Aragorn's side, but Legolas halted him with a touch to his knee. He looked down at the elf. "What is it?"

"Are you all right, Boromir? I know you did not rest during this brief stop."

"I'll be fine." He gave his mount the signal to walk on and joined his King, remaining silent while the Northern Rangers brought up the encased standard; and the Riding of the Army of the Dead progressed under lowering, sunless skies.

He wasn't all right, he knew. But it was not from the rigors of the journey. His anxiety was increasing every time he thought of his brother, and Faramir had been ever on his mind over the long night--and in his nightmarish dreams during the rest period that had just ended.

_I pray that they were just the imaginings of a worried mind, but I fear that there is more to these visions of a tower, a stone, a shadow, and the pain and blood. Faramir, I am _certain_ I would know if you were dead--my heart would know when you leave Arda, I am sure of it. And although I fear for you, I know that you are doing what you must to defend our people._

Legolas brought Arod up alongside of him, and gave him another concerned look. "_Mellon-nin_, sometimes sharing anxieties does help. We will not dismiss them as the fancies of an overwrought imagination," he said quietly.

Boromir smiled, despite his worry. The elf included the dwarf in his collective promise the same way that he, himself, always included Faramir. The heirs to the leadership of the disparate races might not be brothers by blood, but in spirit their closeness rivaled that of the most affectionate of siblings.

"It is my brother," he confessed. "I dreamed--I _pray_ it was only a dream--that he had been captured and was in torment most vile. I have had such a feeling of impending doom upon me since we began this trek from Dunharrow--and do not attribute it to the Army of the Dead, for that is another dread entirely!"

- - - - -

_11 March 3019 - First Hour - Minas Tirith_

Pippin reported for his morning duty still a bit bleary eyed, having never really been a morning person, but his uniform was neat and his feet and hair brushed.

_Ha, Merry would be so surprised. Not only am I awake early, but combed, dressed and reasonably sensible. I do hope the Steward got some sleep last night. _Pippin pulled himself to as close a semblance of attention as he could, and knocked on the doors to the Steward's chamber after informing the guards standing their watch on either side of his orders.

Denethor stepped from his dressing room, clad in black leggings, boots, and a black and silver embroidered tunic that fell to his knees. A page went to answer the door as a knock sounded from without, and the Steward turned to his valet Tallan, a grey-haired man whose muscles were straining at supporting the coat of mail that his master slipped his arms into. Denethor rolled his shoulders to settle it into place so that the leather ties in the back could be tightly laced.

The page opened the door and blinked in surprise to be looking face to face with the Halfing.

Pippin blinked as well, but grinned and said, "Good morning!"

The valet finished tying off the laces on the back of the chainmail coat and lifted the black velvet surcote from the chair where it had been draped but paused as Pippin's voice carried into the room.

Denethor called, "Enter, Guardsman Took. You may assist my valet in arming me."

Pippin gave the page a nod and hurried to obey.

The Steward ducked his head to allow the surcote to fall in neat, embroidered folds about his person, and then stood straight with his arms held away from his sides.

Pippin bowed, his right fist against his heart, and looked up at the Steward. "Er, I'm afraid that I've never helped 'arm' anyone before, my lord," he admitted ruefully as Tallan placed a belt of silver, the square links engraved with the sigil of the white tree, about the Steward's waist.

Denethor, his face tired and shadows under his eyes, nevertheless smiled at the hobbit. "Tallan is doing the most difficult part, but he is getting on in years and could use assistance in putting on my greaves. They go on the same way as yours, albeit they are considerably larger!"

Tallan nodded. "My knees do not bend as well as they used to, Master _Perian_."

"My da says the same thing," Pippin said as he picked up the right greave and knelt to strap it to Denethor's calf. "I find that I'm often looking under tables and his desk for things like his pipe or his penknife, or I was before I came on the quest. Is that too tight, my Lord?"

"Just right, young Peregrin. No, Tallan, I will use the mithril bracers today." The Steward glanced down at the tousled head of light golden brown hair. "It is usual for a squire to be silent, but as you are new to this duty, you may ask your questions as you need whilst we are private together."

"Oh." Pippin flushed in embarrassment, but retrieved the remaining greave. "Thank you, my Lord."

The valet moved to a locked case on the dressing table and opened it with a key that hung on a chain from his belt, then returned to the Steward, his hands laden with a pair of gleaming bracers that were embossed and engraved with the symbols of Gondor.

"Even I had a first day as a squire--to my grandsire--and even though I knew that he loved me, it was very intimidating to arm him." Denethor chuckled wistfully as Tallan put the right hand bracer into place and deftly buckled the straps so that they supported the Steward's sword arm. "I dropped these," he nodded to the bracers, "and I thought I would die of shame." He held the right one down where Pippin could see there was a small indentation along the wrist edge of the mithril. "This one landed on the other, and Steward Turgon did not have the damage repaired, I think as a reminder to me that we must take care of the beauty in the world, lest our carelessness cause it to be destroyed."

In a softer voice, Denethor added, to himself. "I had forgotten that lesson for so long..." He looked sad then shook his head and straightened up again as Tallan finished with the second bracer.

Pippin nodded and fastened the second greave to Denethor's other leg, careful to make sure the straps weren't twisted and that they didn't pinch the leather of the Steward's leggings. When he finished he looked up at the Steward and, in spite of wanting to act like a 'real' esquire, spoke in a quiet voice, "My da told me once that evil can only prevail if good people don't pay attention and do what needs to be done."

"You have a very wise father." Denethor accepted his gloves from Tallan and pulled them on. "Tallan, please show Master Peregrin how to arrange my sword rig. And then, my cloak."

Pippin stood and watched carefully as the valet demonstrated what he was to do. A minute or so later, the Hobbit fastened the last buckle at Denethor's waist and stepped back, blinking and taking a suddenly deep breath of relief that he'd gotten it right and hadn't let the heavy, embossed leather scabbard with the plaques carrying the names of its former bearers, fall.

Tallan laid the great fur-collared black cape, which was edged with silver embroidery, over the Steward's shoulders and moved to the desk to collect the White Rod and then handed it to Denethor with a bow over the artifact.

"Well done, child. Now, we break our fast in the Merethond and move immediately into counsels of war. Tallan, you are free to break your own fast. I do not expect to need your services until the day's end."

The grey-haired retainer bowed again and slipped from the chamber, taking the page with him.

"Come, Master _Perian_. There is much to order this day." Denethor left the room, his face stern and intent, purpose in his stride.

Pippin was surprised at the feeling that filled him at those two words; the 'well done' from Denethor made him feel nearly five feet tall. He hastened to accompany the Steward from the chamber.

Two other guardsmen fell in behind them, and shortly, they were crossing the court of the White Tree in the chill morning air. The sky above was lowering and the black fume from Mordor roiled the clouds, darkening the day as it rolled westward.

Pippin shivered and found his attention turning towards the east and the shadowy line of mountains on the horizon. _I hope Frodo and Sam are all right. I hope I see them again. _He barely caught himself from stumbling as his foot found an uneven spot in the pavement.

Under the bare branches of the White Tree, Denethor stopped and gazed east also, gently touching his gloved hand to the trunk of the dead tree. "Hold fast and guard yourself well, my son. I will stand firm here as you do there," he whispered. "Our city will not fall." Only Elvish ears might have made out the words; his guardsmen assumed that he was murmuring a prayer.

After another moment, Denethor resumed his way to the great feasting hall, which would also, this day, become a chamber of councils of war.

As the guards at the doors of the Merethond opened them, and the sergeant announced, "The Lord Steward of Gondor, Denethor, Son of Ecthelion", the crowd of men who milled around the long table which was set for break of fast, all turned and bowed to the Steward, remaining in obeisance until he'd passed to his seat at the center of the long board, and paused by his chair, his head held high, stern grey eyes sweeping the room.

He met the gaze of the White Wizard and held it steadily until Gandalf raised his bushy white eyebrows suddenly and the _Maia_ inclined his head towards the Steward.

Denethor seated himself and waited for the rest of the hall to do likewise before once again rising and facing west for the Standing Grace. Pippin joined in, remembering Boromir having done this very thing before each meal at Rivendell and, as much as possible, during their journey together through Moria and thence to Lorien and down the River to Amon Hen. The Man had been pleased to explain the giving of thanks to the Valar to the curious Hobbit.

As soon as the food was served, Denethor motioned for Pippin to take a seat on a tall stool that had been placed between the Steward's chair and that occupied by Prince Imrahil to partake of his own meal. The Steward began to shoot questions at the various commanders and lords about the table, inquiring as to the status of the evacuation of the city and the Pelennor--which he had ordered well in advance of Mithrandir's initial erroneous assumption that none were underway--the readiness of the stables, and the amount of stores for those remaining in the city. "How goes the reinforcements of the Rammas Echor?"

A grizzled but gaunt officer spoke up. "We're working on it and progress is being made, my Lord. But I don't know if every area will be completed in time."

Denethor frowned a moment in thought. "Concentrate on the approaches from Osgiliath. The brunt of the attack will come from there."

"Aye, my Lord." The officer gestured towards the sergeant who stood behind him and spoke quietly to him. The man saluted and left the hall.

"Have trenches been dug to slow the enemy siege engines? They must be at least a half mile from the City walls, and filled with oil soaked straw." He listened to the answer and then went on to deal with the issues of orderly retreats from the outlying garrisons that had not already been withdrawn to the City.

At that moment a youth in the white tunic and leggings of a healer's apprentice entered the hall and was intercepted by one of the door wardens. The soldier brought the child along with him and approached the Steward. "A message from the Houses of Healing, my lord."

Denethor held his hand out for the piece of parchment the boy held, and opened and read the hurriedly sealed note. "Gentlemen, I will return shortly. I want reports on the amount of grain, fire wood, and charcoal in the City as well as a report on the wells when I get back. Master _Perian_, come with me." He didn't wait for Pippin but strode for the door, the apprentice hurrying along behind him.

Gandalf came half out of his chair then subsided, his eyelids drooping to hide his expression from the others in the chamber as he turned his attention to the hobbit.

Pippin immediately hopped off of the stool that had been provided for him and hastily followed the Steward, the bread and cheese he'd been eating still in his hand. He cast a glance at Gandalf and was puzzled by the speculative expression on the wizards face. He hurried in Denethor's wake.

Imrahil took up the reins of the meeting, silently wondering what had happened to his brother by law over night. Only the afternoon before, the older man had seemed ready to surrender the city unfought.

Once out of the Merethrond and out of earshot of any but the Steward, Pippin couldn't help asking, "Where are we going, my lord?"

"We are going to the Houses of Healing. One of my son's men is there and is asking to speak with me."

Pippin said no more but saved his breath as he struggled to keep up with the Steward's long strides.

The Warden of the Houses of Healing was waiting at the entrance for the Steward and, in short order, the sable-clad man was seated at the bedside of the obviously failing Captain Anborn, and all others had been chased from the room save Pippin, who Denethor told to stand just inside the door and keep anyone from entering. He took hold of one of Anborn's hands and was astonished to find it like ice despite the roaring fire in the hearth of the sickroom and the blankets pulled close up about the Ranger's body. "You called for me, Captain. I am here."

Anborn's eyes opened, unfocused, but they cleared a bit as he turned his head to face the Steward. "My lord... your son... Captain Faramir... he let the Halflings go... they..." His voice cracked and failed.

Denethor took up the cup of water that stood on the side table, and, carefully lifting Anborn's head, trickled a bit into the dying man's mouth. "Let the Halflings go? Tell me, Anborn."

"One carried ... the great treasure... They had a... a guide. The Captain sent them on... They were going to... to the east."

Denethor sat dead still as the import of the words sank in.

Pippin started but kept his mouth shut when Anborn mentioned two Halflings. They had to have been Frodo and Sam! But he was puzzled about the mention of a guide. Frodo had left Parth Galen with only Sam; who was leading them?

Anborn's hand curled around Denethor's fingers. "They said they were to... take it... into Mordor to destroy it... to the Mount Doom."

Denethor squeezed the Ranger's hand gently, thinking quickly. _Is this the hope that Faramir was clinging to? The knowledge he is safeguarding?_ "Anborn, I must know. You said there was a guide... who was it?"

Pippin waited anxiously for the man's answer.

The Ranger's eyes looked more unfocused, as if seeing something in his mind's eye. "Ugly... evil-looking... called itself... Sméagol. Said they were going through the pass... above the Morgul Vale..." His hand went limp in Denethor's and his eyes closed as Anborn gasped out the final words, his face going even more grey and still.

"Sméagol!?" Pippin couldn't help the half-spoken, half-whispered word that came from his lips. Frodo was letting Gollum lead him to Mordor? "Are you _daft_, Frodo?"

Denethor's head whipped around and is eyes narrowed, staring at Pippin for a moment. "What do you know of this, Master _Perian_?" He turned back to Anborn again, checking to see if the man still breathed.

Pippin hesitated--_Gandalf was going to kill him!_--but something made him answer the Steward. "Frodo and Sam are taking the Ring to Mordor to destroy it. Sméagol--" He hesitated again, unsure how to explain who and what Gollum was. "--He's been trying to get the Ring back. He murdered someone for it a long time ago and lost it. He's--" The Halfling stumbled over his words. "I can't believe that Frodo would trust the wretch!"

Reassured that Anborn was still holding onto life, Denethor turned in the chair to face Pippin and beckoned him closer.

The hobbit approached the Steward, his expression distraught.

"Do not fear--I will not allow the wizard to berate you for being honest. Now, start from the beginning. Who are Frodo and Sam?"

"Frodo is my cousin and he inherited the Ring from our cousin Bilbo. Sam is Frodo's gardener."

Denethor pulled off his gloves, tucked them into his belt, and took Pippin by the hands, looking intently into the hobbit's face as Pippin answered.

"Why them? Why do they carry it to Mordor?"

"Bilbo found the Ring on his Adventure years ago. And Gollum--that is--Sméagol, said Bilbo stole it." It was a relief to be able to tell the truth and not have to constantly check his words. "Gandalf found out that Bilbo's ring was really the Enemy's, and Lord Elrond and the Council said it had to be destroyed. Frodo and Sam are taking it to Mt. Doom to throw it into the fire. Lord Elrond said it could only be destroyed by the fires that made it."

"Ah... much becomes clear now." Denethor sat in silence as he fought back a momentary pang of anger that the Ring was out of his reach; his clearing mind finally seeing beyond his covetousness for the powerful artifact. He suddenly wondered if his desire to obtain the Ring for Gondor had been his own idea—or if the thought had been planted in his mind by the Dark Lord. He was distracted from his thoughts as the Hobbit in front of him spoke again.

"I don't understand why Frodo would trust Gollum--er, Sméagol--to lead them anywhere; but to go into Mordor with him?" Pippin swallowed, remembering Bilbo telling them that the last words he'd heard from Gollum had been "Baggins, we hates it forever!"

The Steward's grey eyes went distant as he recognized that his younger son held the fates of all of them in his ability to withstand the torments of the Dark Lord. Grief washed through him and his head and shoulders bowed. Then, he straightened up and looked into Pippin's eyes, as if to read his heart and mind. "Peregrin Took. Do you believe they can succeed?"

Pippin looked steadily back at Denethor. "Yes, my Lord. If Frodo says he's going to do something, he's going to see it through to the end. And Sam will help him. We Hobbits seem to have been left off the old lists and people don't seem to know about us, so maybe the Enemy won't know to look for them."

"May your words go straight to the Valar, and hold true." Denethor sighed and got to his feet after brushing a hand across the unconscious Ranger's forehead in blessing.

"I do think Frodo can do it, but I'm still afraid for him and Sam, both."

"We all fear for those we love, Master _Perian_. Now, do not speak of this conversation to anyone without my leave." He took Pippin's hands again and squeezed them firmly as he spoke. "The fewer who know of Frodo and Sam's path, the better."

Pippin nodded. "I shan't say a word, I swear."

"Good, now, let us go back to the council and prepare to keep the Dark Lord's eye on us, so he does not know to look for your kinsman and friends."

- - - - -

_11 March 3019 - Sunset - Southeast of Linhir - Enroute to Pelargir_

The Dead would have gone on unceasingly, but the need to rest the horses became paramount, and Aragorn, despite the urgency of getting to Pelargir as soon as possible, ordered a halt for the company of Northern Rangers and his companions of the Fellowship. Boromir gratefully slid down from Brego's back and patted the tired stallion's neck. "Come, Brego," he said. "Let's get you cooled and rested." He began to walk the lathered horse, making figure eights in order to remain as close to the living warriors as he could.

"Boromir, let Halbarad walk Brego for you." Aragorn beckoned the Steward's heir to come with him, and the Ranger took the reins, leading the stallion away. Without explaining further, he took Boromir past Legolas and Gimli to the outskirts of the temporary encampment, just beyond the reach of the light from the small fire that one of the other Rangers had coaxed into being.

"What is it, Aragorn?" Boromir asked as the dark haired man stopped beneath the overarching branches of a leafless tree.

"I need you to keep watch for me." Aragorn slid the saddle bags he carried from his shoulder and reached in one to withdraw a round, cloth-wrapped bundle.

"Keep watch--What are you doing?" Boromir's hackles rose as he recognized the round shape of the Orthanc Palantir. "You can't mean to use it--not after what happened to Pippin!" He kept his voice down to avoid attracting notice from the others, but his disquiet was clear to Aragorn's ears.

"It is my birthright to use the stone--and if I may divert Sauron's eye from Minas Tirith even for a brief time, it cannot hurt, and may even help our city to persevere until we get there." Aragorn dropped to sit against the bole of the tree, facing away from the campfire and the faintly glimmering army of the Dead. "Sit with me, _mellon-nin_. I may need you to draw me out of this. If I seem to be in real distress, cover it over--but be careful not to touch it."

"Is this wise?"

Aragorn looked up at his future Steward and nodded. "I feel in my soul that I must do this _now_--lest some disaster come upon us."

Boromir sat down facing the rightful King of Gondor and nodded his reluctant agreement, his hands clenched into fists on his thighs as Aragorn unwrapped the Palantir and set it on the ground atop the fabric that had shrouded it. He leaned forward and placed his hands on either side, staring into the stone.

Boromir saw it flare into life, green fire bursting from its heart, and threw up a hand to shield his eyes. When the dazzle cleared he saw that the Ranger was caught in the thrall of the stone, the weathered face twisted in an expression of effort and will, and he found himself wondering what it was the orb was revealing.

_Is this what my father looks like when he consults the Palantir of the Citadel?_

_- - - - -_

_11 March 3019 - An Hour After Sunset - Barad-dûr_

Sauron whirled away from the Palantir with a shriek of rage that managed to penetrate Faramir's unconsciousness enough to draw a thready moan of agony from him.

_**That blasted, benighted spawn of Isildur! HE has it. He must. Why else challenge me now? He rides to Minas Tirith to bring the Ring to succor Gondor.**_

The Dark Lord paced the chamber and the Uruks who were standing guard at the door went dead still, not wanting to attract the dread lord's attention.

**_I must move now. Attack the City and the Elven Realms now. I will destroy Gondor and will find this upstart and retrieve my treasure from him!_**

He sent out a summons to the Witch-king of Angmar, ordering him to push his troops to the destroyed bridge of Osgiliath and to get them across the river as fast as possible, ahead of the planned commencement of battle. As he moved to the window that looked out on Orodruin, he kicked against the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, causing a jolt of agony that sent Faramir once more into the depths of oblivion--and an idea was born in the dark recesses of the fallen _Maia's_ mind. He added an additional order to those already given to the Black Captain. _**Send one of your fellows to Barad-dûr to collect the Steward's son. Keep him alive until you reach the City--and then use him to destroy the will and hope of the defenders--and the Steward.**_

TBC


	8. The Lull

**A/N:** I'm sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. First the Muse was not cooperative and then "real life" decided to throw a wobbler at us and trying to get time to sit down and wrestle with the story became almost impossible. This is a transition chapter, so not much actual action, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. To clarify things, there are several points where this tale breaks from canon: Faramir is captured by the Nazgul on 8 March after sending Frodo and Sam on their way from Henneth Annun; Boromir is not killed at Amon Hen and accompanies Aragorn across Rohan and on the Paths of the Dead; and after Gandalf turns the Orthanc Stone over to Aragorn, the Dunadain does not attempt to use it prior to taking the Paths of the Dead. This AU is based off of the books instead of the film but Boromir still looks like Sean Bean (but with dark Numenorean hair, instead of the blonde locks (grin)).

**Warnings:** Emotionally intense, semi-graphic description and implication of personal violence. No slash.**  
**

**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fan fiction, created solely for the enjoyment of the author and the readers at Fanfiction dot net. I am getting no monetary restitution for this work, and it is in no way intended to infringe on any copyrights or other intellectual property rights held by the Tolkien Estate, New Line Cinema, nor any other Lord of the Rings licensee.

**LAMENTABLE TIDINGS - Chapter 8 - The Lull  
**

by Rhyselle

_12 March 3019 - Dawn - Lebennin, on the road enroute to Pelargir _

Boromir cast a worried eye across to where Aragorn rode leaning forward over Hasufel's neck as if to urge the borrowed Rohirrim stallion to move even faster than they already were. The uncrowned King looked as exhausted as Boromir felt, but refused to rest, and the Gondorian wondered if he would be able to catch Aragorn if the Man toppled from the saddle.

The session with the Orthanc stone the prior evening had left Aragorn casting up his accounts on the grass beneath the trees, with the Steward's older son drawing the long tangled hair away from Isildur's heir's face. Boromir had called for Legolas to come to them, and the elf and Gimli arrived so quickly that he suspected that they had been standing watch themselves, just out of sight.

A dose of Miriuvor had brought some ease to the son of Arathorn, and between the three of them, they had managed to convince their friend to sleep.

_Of course he was not happy that I let him sleep three hours instead of the two he agreed to,_ Boromir thought, resigned, _but how does he expect us to fight when we get there if we are too tired to lift a sword?_

He looked ahead through the dull, darkened day, hoping to find their destination in view despite knowing they had a minimum of another full day's riding before they would reach the port city on the northern bank of the Anduin.

Suddenly he reeled in the saddle, his right hand clutching at his chest and his vision going momentarily grey. He could have sworn that he smelled a floral perfume on the air as his vision cleared, and a sense of sorrow, pain, and despair rolled through his heart and mind.

"Boromir!" Aragorn reached across and seized the Gondorian's arm, hauling him back upright on Brego's back. "What is it?"

Anguished eyes opened to Aragorn's concerned gaze. "Faramir!"

- - - - - - - - - -

_The scent of flowers wrapped around the spark of Faramir's awareness, and the darkness around him faded away, slowly revealing a greensward that swept from the edge of a forest that reminded him of Ithilien, and yet was more--the trees more alive, the leave more verdant. The lea upon which he stood was cradled in the curve of a sparkling river, the water like crystal, and he could see to the very bottom where silver-scaled fish played along the jewel-pebbled bottom among graceful river grasses. The turf beneath his soft-booted feet was scattered generously with tiny white, blue and yellow flowers that gave off a lovely scent that seemed almost familiar to him. _

_"Faramir." _

_He whirled and stared at the woman who had spoken his name. Her fair hair was drawn up and back from a face he had seen only in memory for thirty years. _

_"Mama." His heart swelled with joy as he took a step forward and then stopped as he wrapped his mind around this impossibility. "Am I dead?" he couldn't help asking. "Is this what it's like beyond the veil?" He looked around again and then stared back at her, his grey eyes luminous. _

_Finduilas glowed. It was the only way that Faramir could describe her appearance; the light of her spirit seemed to dance about the edges of her person, uncontained by the aspect she wore. She looked as he'd always imagined the Firstborn to appear. _

_Something made Faramir look down at himself, and he realized that he felt no pain. He stared at the hands he held up before him--both intact and whole, the skin flawless and perfect, whole and undamaged. He was arrayed in his Ranger leathers but they, too, were perfect; an idealized image of the uniform and gear which he'd worn with pride and love for all of the years of his majority. He felt the familiar weight of his bow and quiver at his back, and the weight of his sword--a gift from his beloved brother--at his hip. _

_"Where is Boromir?" _

_"Boromir is alive, my dear son. But you are here at the borderlands." _

_A rush of relief swept through him at the news of his brother's survival, and he dragged in a deep breath as he was able to banish the fears that had filled his heart and mind since Boromir had left Osgiliath that hot July day the year before. Then he queried the second half of her statement. "The borderlands?" _

_"I am proud of you, my son," Finduilas smiled at him. "I do not believe that anyone could have held so strongly to their resolve as you have these past days. You have kept your oaths and your honour, Faramir. There is only a little wait here, and then I will walk with you through the Circles of Arda to what awaits you beyond. She moved close and embraced him. "I love you so." _

_Faramir inhaled the scent of her and absorbed the warmth of his mother's love as he hugged her back, fulfilling a yearning that had never quite vanished since he was five years old and had lost her to death. His only regret was that he could not now do the same with his Father or his Brother. _

_Then suddenly, the quiet joy that had filled him at the sight of her vanished as he felt a harsh burning sensation in his mouth, running down his throat to fill his belly. Pain blossomed across his back and around his ribs, and he staggered from Finduilas' suddenly insubstantial hold. He screamed and collapsed as his joints flared with agony and his limbs refused to hold him up. Faramir flung up his hands as he hit a surface that was far harder than the grassy sward should be and stared in horror at the crudely cauterized stump of his right wrist, the broken, distorted fingers of his left hand, and the tattered remains of his shirt sleeves. _

_The green and growing borderlands disappeared and he cried out "Mother!" despairingly as she faded away into the darkness and pain that dragged him back and fogged his sight again. _

- - - - -

_12 March 3019 - Dawn - Barad-dûr _

"Give 'im another dose," ordered the senior Uruk who had been put in charge of reviving Faramir for the flight to meet the Witch-kings's army. The sergeant turned back to the small window to see if there was any sight yet of the Nazgul who had been summoned to carry off the prisoner once more.

"Wastin' good med'cine on one o' them," grumbled the private who was holding the flask of the foul, but effective, brew. "'e was all but dead--why's the Boss want 'im alive now?"

The sergeant turned back from the window and loomed over his subordinate menacingly, "You don't need to know why. Just obey orders. Get the dose in 'im."

The Ranger choked on the thick, foul fluid but swallowed enough of the stimulant to be dragged back from the gates of death and into awareness of Middle-earth. "_Mother!_" His scream echoed around the guard's room, and his damaged body trembled in reaction to the medication's effects.

The sergeant laughed and stooped over far enough to take Faramir's left shoulder into his hands. He gave it a sudden sharp jerk and settled the joint back into its socket, dragging out another scream from his prisoner. Another moment's effort reset the other shoulder, and Faramir thought he would go mad from the agony--but the orc draught prevented him from escaping through unconsciousness.

"We'll give 'im a minute before putting 'is 'ips back. Better give 'im another dose 'fore we do that, too," the sergeant added. The private grinned at him and upended the flask against Faramir's lips, drowning the remains of the keen that bubbled in the Man's throat.

- - - - -

_12 March 3019 - First Hour - Minas Tirith _

Denethor, seated at his desk with extra lamps lit to combat the dim, murky light of the early morning, unbent from over the daybook entry he was reviewing from the night before. Long after the hobbit had been dismissed and the half-evacuated city had quieted into uneasy rest, he had sat and mused over what Anborn had told him.

The resulting thoughts and conclusions had been penned into his daybook before he retired, and he wanted to be certain that he had forgotten nothing before revealing what he knew to the wizard and to the Prince of Dol Amroth.

A light knock on the outer door drew his attention. "We are expecting guests for break of fast," he announced to his diminutive guardsman who stood by the door. "Let them enter."

"Yes, my Lord." Pippin longed to ask who the guests were but had promised himself that he was going to behave as an esquire ought.

As it was, his own break of fast had been far too frugal for any hobbit to appreciate, and much too long ago in the hours before dawn. _If this war ever ends and Aragorn becomes King, I should ask him to make second breakfasts mandatory everywhere within his borders_, he thought, _at least for hobbits!_.

The Steward closed the daybook, got to his feet and moved to where the table was set before the hearth.

When Pippin opened the door, he was met by the kind face of Prince Imrahil.

"Well met, Guardsman Took. May Eru Iluvatar bless you this day," he gave a traditional greeting of his own City.

Pippin couldn't help smiling up at the tall Man from Dol Amroth. "And you likewise, sir."

He gestured for the Prince to enter then shot a glance at Denethor, wondering if he should just have stayed silent.

Imrahil crossed the room to greet the Steward, bowing his head and giving a like greeting to which Denethor responded. The older man added, "We await only Mithrandir."

Pippin closed the door and returned to his former position of waiting, casting a wistful glance at the waiting breakfast table by the hearth. _I seem to do a lot of waiting_, he thought but any further musings were halted by the realization that there were four places set at the table. He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. _Four places and two guests._ Unlike Strider, the Steward had obviously understood the importance of second breakfast as soon as he'd heard of it.

Another knock pre-empted any further exchange between the two rulers.

Pippin opened the door to find Gandalf, who looked somewhat preoccupied. The _Maia_ merely grunted and frowned at the Halfling before crossing to where the two Men waited.

Pippin secured the door and, having earlier been instructed as to his duties by Tallan, went to fill Denethor's plate from the chafing dishes that were set on the sideboard. Personally, he thought the entire amount of food on the sideboard would have only made a nice snack for two well-fed hobbits, but it was a far greater amount and variety than he'd seen anyone else in the City enjoying. And even if he were woefully inadequate as a squire, at least he did know how to properly dish out food!

"Gentlemen, let us eat before we discuss that which I have called upon you to hear." Denethor seated himself, waited for the filled plates to be put into place, including Pippin's, and then rose again for the Standing Grace.

During the Grace, Pippin sent hopeful thoughts towards Frodo and Sam and Merry and the rest of the Fellowship, as well as towards the Shire and his family.

Seated again, Denethor broke bread and asked Pippin, "Have you any new questions about my city this morning, Master Peregrin?"

Pippin swallowed his mouthful of egg and shook his head. "Not at the moment, my Lord."

Gandalf snorted in mock amazement. "Hmph! Can this be the hobbit who couldn't stop asking questions the entire journey from Rohan to the City gates?"

"One wonders that you chose him for a traveling companion if you disapprove so much of him." Denethor's voice was deceptively mild, but the look in his grey Numenorean eyes made it plain that he would not tolerate further insult from the wizard regarding Peregrin Took.

"It's all right, my Lord. I'm used to Gandalf's grumpiness." Pippin had a twinkle of what could only be called devilment in his green eyes as he spoke.

"Manners, child. How one deports oneself in referring to others is a measure of the man."

He kept his eyes on Mithrandir, making it plain that it was not Pippin's manners that were at issue.

Gandalf frowned again but reluctantly apologized to Pippin, "Your pardon, Peregrin."

"It's all right Gandalf. I know you don't really like to be awake this early in the morning," Pip told him cheerfully.

Imrahil cleared his throat to keep from chuckling at how nothing seemed to keep the hobbit down and turned to his brother-in-law. "I wish I had been able to bring you more of my knights, but with the Corsairs sending their raiding parties along the shore communities, I had to leave some protection for my people and the evacuees who have made it to the refuges in Belfalas."

"Peace, brother-by-law. You have always been swift to come to my aid. I would that others would do likewise."

Gandalf interjected, "Theoden-King is most certainly on his way at this very moment with as many of his Riders as can be spared."

"I was thinking of several of the fiefdoms who are not at direct risk from the enemy and yet use the excuse of fearing for their people as a reason to send fewer troops than they are required to send for the defense of Gondor."

Imrahil asked, "Any in particular?"

Denethor listed the names of a handful of fiefs along the western range of the White Mountains. "But--" He laid down his eating irons, took up his goblet of small ale, and looked across the table at Gandalf and then to Imrahil, "That is not what I need to relay to you this morning."

Gandalf set aside his fork and waited, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

"Yesterday, I was called to the Houses of Healing to speak with one of the Ithilien Rangers who survived the attack in which my son was captured."

Pippin paused in his quiet consumption of breakfast at the mention of the injured Ranger, his face troubled as he listened.

Denethor pushed back his resurgent grief, and continued. "Captain Anborn was--is--Faramir's second in command, and was present when two strangers were found in the woods of Ithilien near to their refuge at Henneth Annun."

Gandalf's eyebrow lowered but he said nothing as he waited for the Steward to continue.

"My son questioned them as to their presence there, and made the decision to go against my decree to bring all strangers to Minas Tirith for questioning. They carried something of great value, and he released them four days ago to continue their journey." He paused a moment, looking Gandalf in the eye, before continuing, "Into Mordor."

He waited to see the wizard's reaction, taking a sip of ale as he did so.

Gandalf's face had grown stony at the Steward's initial words but the wizard's expression changed to a mix of relief and sorrow as he whispered, "Thank Eru." He spoke louder and asked, "Four days ago? Did your Ranger know what path they were taking?"

Pippin looked over at Gandalf and was amazed to find the gnarled hand that reached for the wizard's cup trembled.

The Steward added, "Anborn said that your Frodo and Sam, accompanied by their guide were going to the Morgul Vale."

"Guide? What guide? Did Faramir send one of his Rangers with them?"

"No, Gandalf. Frodo's following Gollum," Pippin said then fell silent with a gulp, as Gandalf's eyes turned towards him, his eyebrows, ever an indicator of his mood, drawn low.

"What!"

Denethor interrupted, "Perhaps, before you berate the little one for obeying my command to say nothing of what he heard in the Houses of Healing, you may wish to explain just why his kinsman was in Ithilien bearing the burden he is carrying?"

Gandalf turned his glare from the hobbit to the Steward. "Surely your Numenorean insight can tell you the answer to that," he snapped.

Denethor raised an eyebrow and calmly responded, "But my kinsman does not know of the Quest--and why, more than ever, we must hold strong here." He leaned forward. "My older son is who knows where with Isildur's heir--if he is still alive at all!--and my younger son is lost to us at the hands of the Nazgul. Imrahil is my heir now, should I fall; the closest relation to the House of Hurin. Tell him, Mithrandir."

"Brother--" Imrahil began, only to quiet at Denethor's upraised hand.

"Peace, Imrahil. You will understand shortly."

Gandalf nodded and succinctly told the tale of the finding of the Ring and the decision made at the Council of Elrond to destroy it. "Frodo and Sam are journeying to take the Ring back to the Fire it was created in, to destroy it--and Sauron's power that is held within it," the wizard concluded.

"They make for the Pass at Cirith Ungol, Mithrandir--and Faramir knows this." The Steward's hand clenched around the stem of the pewter goblet so tightly that his knuckles went white.

Gandalf froze, though it was difficult to tell whether it was the name of that foul place, that distressed him the most, or the thought that Sauron held a prisoner who knew not only what the hobbits were doing but where they were. "Faramir is strong-willed," the wizard said after a few moments, "It would take much to break him."

Denethor could not help but shudder at the memory of what he'd seen in the Palantir, his face paling as he closed his eyes. "In the Black Tower even the strongest may break," he whispered.

He hadn't realized that he'd clasped his left hand tightly around his right wrist and that the goblet had spilled sideways onto the floor from his suddenly lax fingers.

Pippin immediately hopped down from his chair and picked up the goblet, blotting up the spilled ale with his napkin. "My lord, are you all right?"

Denethor made his fingers relax, releasing his right wrist before he answered, "Yes, Master Peregrin."

Pippin got a clean cup and poured out more ale for the Steward, then took his own seat again, keeping his worried gaze on the Man.

Imrahil shook his head, and said, "Perhaps he has not been taken to the Dark Tower--"

"He is the son of the Steward of Gondor," Denethor interrupted, "and the Acting Captain General of our Army in Boromir's absence. They will not waste time having him interrogated by lesser beings." The Steward took up the refilled cup and drained it, then, firmly taking hold of his emotions, pushed back the despair that threatened to overtake him and forced himself to deal with the here and now.

"Faramir is strong-willed," Gandalf repeated, his eyes now compassionate as he gazed at the Steward. "And the blood of Numenor runs strong in his veins, I do not think he will break even should the Dark Lord himself question him."

"May Eru Iluvatar make it so, Mithrandir. Now, the question is what can we do to keep the Red Eye's attention on Gondor rather than on those who are likely crossing the Mountains of Shadow as we speak?"

- - - - -

_12 March 3019 - Late morning - Osgiliath _

The winged mount swooped down over the trees of Ithilien, and over the east bank of the River Anduin, soaring over hundreds--nay, thousands--of torches and campfires. The Ringwraith, his prisoner tied to the neck of the flying steed, hissed in the Gondorian's ear, "Look and despair once again, mortal, at the might of the Lord Sauron's armies."

The son of the Steward didn't respond, caught up in delirium brought on by the orc draughts that had been repeatedly poured down his throat over the hours that had passed since Sauron had ordered him to be taken to the Witch-King.

The Wraith had stopped twice on the five-hour flight; once at Cirith Ungol for long enough to acquire additional stimulants to keep Faramir's heart beating despite the damage he'd taken thus far in his captivity, and then again at the Cross Roads, where the Black Captain was checking on the trailing units of the army, had given orders to take the half-conscious prisoner to Osgiliath. The influence of the two Nazgul focused on him had caused Faramir to slip further into the darkness and terror in which he'd existed since he'd been questioned and tortured by the Dark Lord, while the stimulants kept him from failing entirely.

The Fell Beast dropped abruptly to land in an open area surrounded by the ruined buildings on the west side of the river in the middle of the ruined city. The site of the former bridge was a hive of activity in the murk, orcs and Men of the East and South working to re-bridge the Anduin, using the barges that had carried the initial assault against the defenders who had been driven off to the Causeway Forts of the Rammas Echor, giving the Dark Army control of the west bank and all of the lost city.

As soon as the creature settled, a tall figure clothed in black and scarlet strode up to halt just out of the reach of the hissing and growling monster and bowed to the mounted Nazgûl. "Welcome to Osgiliath, my lord." 

Ignoring the greeting, Angmar's third in command indicated Faramir, tied to the monster's neck. "This prisoner is the younger son of the Ruling Steward of Gondor, and, by order of the Dark Lord, is to be made an example of before the walls of the city when we reach them. Until then, you are responsible for his keeping, Captain Aswad."

Aswad bowed again and called in his own tongue for two of his men to take charge of the battered and shivering Ranger.

Faramir cried out as the Southron troopers drew him down from the neck of the Fell Beast; the motions tearing at his dislocated knees, aggravating his cracked ribs, and sending jolts of agony throughout his abused body.

The Wraith hissed at them, "He is to be kept alive until the city is taken. If he dies you will wish that you had died with him."

Aswad repeated the Ringwraith's words in his native tongue, along with additional orders, and the scarlet and black clad soldiers bowed and more carefully supported the Gondorian prisoner away from the foul-smelling winged beast.

"They will take him to my temporary headquarters, my lord. I will ensure he does not escape--nor die--before I receive further orders from you."

"Consider ways to destroy the hopes of those City dwellers--it is known that they cherish him. Watching him perish by inches will defeat their resolve." The Nazgul gave a signal to his mount and the monstrous beast shifted and lifted its wings for the massive downbeat that would send it into the air.

"As you command, my lord." Aswad bowed again and, once the Servant of the Dark Lord had flown off, gave a shudder, relieved at the departure of the terrifying presence. He headed back to the building which he'd taken over for his Headquarters, into which the guards had carried their burden.

He stepped through the gaping maw of the one-time doorway, and crossed to the still-functioning hearth, holding his hands over the glowing coals of the brazier set there, warming them. He inhaled deeply, letting the incense that had been sprinkled on the charcoal rid his senses of the stench of the Fell Beast. The damp coolness of this land that penetrated his bones chilled him far less than the effect of the Nazgul lords. Rubbing his hands together over the glowing charcoal, he stared narrowly down at his new charge, who lay on the cracked flagstones, partially roused from the oblivion that seemed unable to hold him under.

Aswad didn't need this on top of all of his other responsibilities, but those who said no to a Nazgul's tasking generally had their head on a pike before an hour had passed--if they were fortunate.

The Ranger Captain showed all of the signs of overdose of the foul draught that the orcs used to revive their wounded: physical tremors; unnatural wakefulness; pinpoint pupils; clammy, pale skin; and the rapid pulse that beat visibly in the Man's throat and at his temples. He was likely hallucinating, or about to. "Karit! Attend me!" he called out for his aide in Southron.

The young officer appeared from a passage that led further back into the half ruined stone structure. "Here I am, lord." He bowed to his commander.

"Summon Tabiib and tell him to bring his instruments and medicines. And have a smith brought with a collar and chain to secure our... guest."

The younger man's black eyes flickered to Faramir curiously and then he bowed again. "I will see to it immediately, lord." Karit went to the outer door and disappeared, calling orders to the senior enlisted soldiers who congregated around a brazier set in the courtyard.

Aswad stooped down to crouch over the Ithilien Ranger, running a fingertip along the still visible design of the White Tree on Faramir's leather jerkin. It was unheard of that prisoners were released from the dungeons of Barad-dûr--at least, not alive.

"Steward's son. Servant's son! How strong are you? Will your father ransom you--or let you die as your city burns before your eyes?" The Haradrim smiled slowly, got back to his feet and turned towards the door.

As the healer he'd had summoned entered the room, the Commander gave quick orders, emphasizing the necessity to keep the Gondorian alive, and then left to make his rounds of his brigade leaders. Enroute, he gave some additional orders and watched with satisfaction as a squad of his men headed back across the barge bridge to the east bank of the river and the edge of the forest beyond the ruined city's limits.

TBC 


End file.
